Harry Potter and the Arcana
by the Imaginizer
Summary: Harry Potter's life as we know it is entrenched with destiny, sewn together like a tightly plotted book. But what if his bond with destiny was far more imminent? What if whatever card said that Harry Potter is rubbish at divination was turned upside down?
1. Of Cousins and Cards

**Disclaimer:** Do I look like a middle aged woman? Never mind, you can't see me. I the only thing I own of this story is the stray strand of absurdity/idiocy that weaves its way through the plot. Happy?  
And ah, yes, on that note, any song lyrics or little phrases from music albums you might find don't belong to me - they're a part of an obsession that comes from listening to my favourite bands while I write. I take no credit, and therefore no responsibility ;)

**AN/Warnings: **1. A note on the nature of the story: first thing's first, Harry - he will be OOC, a little more sarcastic and cynical, and he might begin to show a cruel streak as time goes on. This change, as well as a few things behind magical theory and Harry's heritage are going to be, for the most part, the only fundamental things I will change (well, there will be other things, but...spoilers spoil) - many of the events in canon will leak into my own plot; so even though this is, in all technicality, an AU, the original timeline will be weaving through.  
2. The rating is T for now…but if it ends up anything like most of my original fiction, it could get quite dark/bloody in places (though I will try to keep the more macabre elements of my sense of humour out of this...), so depending on how it goes, it could end up as M. Be ye warned.  
3. I will be screwing with the Harry Potter universe, Greek and Egyptian mythology, and methods of divination (especially cartomancy) as I please. I will try to stick to basic facts about canon HP, the occult, and mythology, but I will be manipulating these things a great deal, in the end.  
4. Over time, it has come to my attention that my rationality only ever aligns with everyone else's when I'm doing math. So if parts of this story seem a bit...strange, they probably make perfect sense to me. Interpret that how you will.  
5. Last but not least, thank you for reading. I'm hoping that all of us will enjoy the evolution of this story, and I appreciate any input that you can give me :)

Now, onto the good stuff:

* * *

**Chapter 1: Of Cousins and Cards**

Harry Potter had terrible luck. He had known this for quite a long time, though he was not sure when exactly he first realized it, or when, in fact, it had started. Perhaps it had been when his hair miraculously turned blue right before Marge Dursley had come to visit his Uncle, Vernon Dursley. Marge always took great pleasure in cruelly antagonizing Harry whenever she visited – though he had no idea why any adult in their right mind would enjoy mocking a six year old – but because his hair was too 'freaky' for Uncle Vernon's liking, Harry had been locked in his cupboard for the weekend, depriving Marge of her fun, and causing Harry to be punished for weeks after. Then again, maybe the bad luck had started soon after, when Aunt Petunia, Vernon's wife and his deceased mother's sister, had burnt dinner, and then blamed it on Harry, saying that she had had him cook dinner – the whole unfortunate debacle was what initiated Harry's now regular stints in the Dursely kitchen. Perhaps, though, the bad luck started a few years later, when Harry's math test scores were handed out on the day the Supervisor had been looking over his class. Seeing Harry's scores, as well as the fact he had thoughtlessly corrected the teacher on one of them, he had called the Dursleys and excitedly suggested that Harry be moved up a grade. The discussion that followed quickly spiralled out of control, and in the end, the poor man ended up fired, and Harry was thrown in his cupboard for a week. Or maybe it was when Harry, for reasons even he didn't know, had commented offhandedly about how Uncle Vernon's work wouldn't go well. When Vernon returned, he was positively furious, blaming Harry for the fact that his business deal didn't go through. It was an _post hoc ergo propter hoc_ fallacy – Harry had pulled that nifty phrase out of a book in the library, his favourite retreat, and loved it ever since – Harry pointed out, but apparently the older man wasn't as intelligent as he claimed to be.

All that being said, Harry was sorely tempted to conclude that his bad luck had started the day he was dropped on the Dursley's doorstep at fifteen months old, the doorstep of Number 4 Privet Drive, Surrey. He had no idea why his parents hated him enough to go off and die (in a car crash, the Dursleys insisted, but Harry was rather inclined to believe that everything they said was a lie), leaving him with such beastly relatives, and he had no idea what he had done in a past life to deserve his atrociously large chore list – maybe he had been Hitler, he idly mused. But what really stumped him was that at night, after particularly mind-numbingly-bad-luck-filled days, he could swear he heard distant, mocking laughter eerily seeping through the musty walls of his cupboard – which lead him to believe that either he was going insane, or someone was screwing around with him, or both. Yes, Harry Potter had _very_ bad luck.

That was why nine year old Harry wasn't all that surprised at the situation he was in. After school, his tubby, yet vicious cousin Dudley and his friends had cornered him, quite obviously wanting to play a game of 'Harry Hunting' – clever game that it was. In a fit of exasperation, Harry had simply turned toward them, closing his eyes and bracing himself; he was not going to give them the satisfaction of chasing him. But at a sudden thudding sound, he had snapped his eyes open, finding Dudley's friend Piers slumped against the school wall, apparently concussed, Dudley and co. staring at Harry in undisguised horror. Harry had had no desire to find out what had happened, and darted, faintly hearing the sounds of pursuit behind him as he had ducked into a decrepit alleyway. He had heard his pursuers swiftly approaching and panicked, not knowing where to go next, until suddenly, a soft, hissing voice had floated into his ears:

_:This way...hide, this way...:_

Without a second thought, Harry had leapt in the direction of the voice, crawling into a crevice in the alley wall. Harry was a small boy, but had barely fit in through what he had identified as a broken window. He had cut his hands and knees climbing through, but ignored the bite of the murky glass as he curled up in the cupboard-like hollow, holding his breath. Voices wafted through the alleyway, distant but loud, eventually fading out into the dissonant sounds of the suburban afternoon. When he deemed it safe, he peeked outside, and began to make his way back into the alleyway – which would have been fine, except that he couldn't get back out. He was trapped. Which was the situation he was in now. Hungry, late for chores, dirty, and bleeding, and on top of that, trapped in an old abandoned building, which really should have been boarded up better. He wished he could make the window bigger, like he had with his toy soldier that one time, but as per his bad luck, his 'freakishness' simply would not manifest on demand. Harry truly hated his luck, and in a rather melodramatic fit of hopelessness was considering merely closing his eyes and waiting to shrivel up and die, when he heard the muffled voice once again.

_:In here! He's in here!:_

Suddenly the wall on the far side of his hollow snapped open, and with the incoming light, Harry realized that he was, in fact, in a cupboard of sorts. Oh the irony. But this realization was hardly what was flooding his mind; for staring at him with wide, unfocused green eyes, was a man, his long, greasy blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail. Only the faintest of lines crossed his forehead - betraying maturity that belied his careless posture. The man smelled funny, Harry vaguely noticed, but seeing the state of his Led Zeppelin t-shirt and ripped jeans, Harry suspected that this was due to a lack of washing. It looked as though he had not changed in days; perhaps the jeans were his only pair, and his t-shirt was his favourite? Harry's suspicions concerning the smell, however, were promptly erased when he laid eyes on the pile of strange herbs and powders and the burning incense on rickety table in the centre of the room, which sat beside an old record player, from which was emanating a droning electric guitar riff.

_:Well damn! It is a boy!:_ the man said, glancing down at the rather enormous snake draped around his neck.

_:Told you,: _the snake sneered – Harry was hard pressed to hide his shock, for hitherto he did not believe snakes could sneer.

Frowning, he cleared his throat slightly, _:Excuse me…:_

The attentions of both the man and the snake snapped toward him as they exclaimed simultaneously, _:He speaks!: _

_:Er…of course I speak.:_

The man, seeming shaken out of a stupor, shook his head knowingly and jerkily lifted Harry out of the cupboard, saying with a American accent that had a slight twang to it, "There's speaking," _:And then there's speaking_.:

Harry frowned, noticing the slight difference in tones, one harsh, gravelly, well-defined, the other oily, whispery, and sultry; it was as though they were the same language, yet different…

"There's a difference, you know."

"Right." Harry was still slightly skeptical.

The man nodded with solemnity that did not at all look good on him. "You were speaking the language of snakes."

"O-of snakes?" wondered Harry, astonished, glancing up at the python around the man's neck.

"Yup."

"Oh."

The man stared at him incredulously. "Oh? _Oh?_ I tell ya you can speak the language snake, and all you can say is 'oh'?"

"Stranger things have happened to me," Harry replied matter-of-factly, recalling the blue hair incident.

"I bet they have, kid, I bet they have," the man mumbled, slurring slightly as he stumbled and collapsed into a sitting position upon a pillow by the table. "Here, take a seat." He tossed a torn, lumpy pillow toward Harry.

"So," Harry began awkwardly, sitting down on the pillow with reluctance, somewhat baffled with the strange scene he had stumbled upon, briefly considering the possibility that he was hallucinating, or that Dudley had caught him after all, leaving him in a coma...But then again, maybe it was real – he vaguely recalled a book he read about a girl who fell down a rabbit hole, finding herself in a wild world of backwardness and fantastical absurdity...wait, that was fiction. Nevertheless, he was beginning to make connections… "You're American?"

"French, actually," the man corrected lazily. "Spent more time in 'merica though."

"Uh…and why are you here?"

"Well, I'm broke, so I'm squatting," the man deadpanned.

"Ah, no, I mean, in the country."

"Oh, that. Well, I was looking for you."

Harry's eyes went wide. "F-for me?" he asked in disbelief.

The man nodded solemnly, closing his eyes in thought. However, the thoughtful expression soon faded into a confused grimace. "Say, what's your name, kid?"

Harry's expression flattened. "You were looking for me, but you don't know my name?"

"That's right," the man drawled.

"How were you planning on finding me if you didn't know my name? And how do you know _I'm _the one you're looking for?" asked Harry dubiously.

"Well, uh…" the man paused and took a drag from the joint he had picked up, "You speak to snakes…and I was lookin' for someone who could speak to snakes."

"Well, there must be other people you can speak…snake."

The man shook his head. "The Tongue of Python, or Parseltongue. It's a family trait. Now that I think about it, there was a British family that had it too…Gyps, or Gaunts, or sumthin'."

"And I'm British."

"Just shut yer pie-hole, will ya? Let me finish. All the British ones are dead, which leaves us French folk."

"I'm British."

"Well, you're obviously not as British as you thought."

Harry scowled at him. "I _am_ British."

"Meh, sure they rock and roll great – long live Led Zeppelin," he crossed himself, "But lets face it, the French are better. We got croissants. And escargot."

"And eating snails is so bloody amazing."

"Yes, it is."

Harry's nose wrinkled up in disgust.

"So, name, kid?"

"Yours first."

The man sniffed, "Suspicious little bastard. The name's Jean Alliette."

"Harry Potter."

The Jean's eyes widened into disturbingly round balls. "You don't say."

"What, you know who I am now?"

"'Couse, but that has nothin' to do with me. I was looking for you for a reason."

"Which is…"

"Well, kid, we're cousins!" Jean grinned widely. "Or something like that."

Harry's jaw dropped in shock. "Wh-wh-what?"

"Yup, must be."

"B-b-but…" A cousin, another one? I nicer one, at that?

"No, buts, the locator spell led me here, and I don't think there's any other snake-speaking brats in the vicinity."

"I…wait, spell?" Harry's slight panic attack came to a sure halt.

"Duh. Wizard."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"I'm a wizard, so are you, ya know. There's a whole world of us out there, secret, of course." He winked.

Harry frowned, considering the brazen, unreal statement. His first instinct was to deny it, Uncle Vernon's favourite phrase, 'There's no such thing as magic!' coming to mind. But then again, considering his abysmal luck and penchant for freakishness, it was plausible. "Oh."

Jean gaped at him. "Damn, kid, you freak out about being my cousin, but being a wizard and a snake-speaker's okay. Great way to make a guy feel loved."

"Er…sorry."

"Nah, 'sfine." He picked up a tray sitting on the table, shoving it toward Harry. "Cookie?"

Harry cautiously picked up one of the cookies and took a bite. "It tastes…funny…" It tasted sort of like dirt or straw, really. Not that he was complaining, or anything.

"Yeah, well, they got weed in them."

"Weed?" Harry asked incredulously. "Like dandelions?"

Jean chuckled. "Yeah, sure, kid."

Harry frowned, but finished the cookie anyway, reaching for another one. It was odd, he was suddenly feeling a little light headed, the colours in the room brightening and seeming…happier – but it was alright, he decided, grinning inwardly.

"Now," Jean exclaimed, clapping his hands and startling Harry from his cookie-induced daze, "Down to business."

"What business?" Harry asked, his inquiry muffled by a mouthful of cookie.

"Well…hmm…I dunno, just seemed like a good thing to say," Jean said, grinning lazily.

"Sure." Harry turned his attention back to the cookie, pondering how something so odd and queerly textured could make him feel so good. He had not felt so relaxed, carefree in years. If only Aunt Petunia had a cookie recipe like this...

Suddenly, the plate was snatched away from him, and he turned to glare at the thief.

"I think that's quite enough of those," mused Jean, snapping his fingers. Suddenly a sharp, biting sensation shivered through Harry's body, oddly resembling how one feels after biting a lemon, but without the taste.

"W-what was that?" Harry pouted, suddenly feeling much more...sober.

"Huh, well, you see...never mind."

"Right."

"So..."

Harry blinked at him expectantly.

"So…what to say to bratty estranged cousin…"

"Oi!"

"Huh…you live around here kid?"

"Yeah."

"With who?"

"My Aunt and Uncle."

"Muggles?"

"Huh?"

"People who can't do cool shit like us."

Harry stared at him blankly.

"Non-magic folk."

"Oh, yeah."

"Must be boring."

Harry thought briefly of all the time he spent doing chores, "I guess." Chores: garden work, sweeping, cooking...cooking. Suddenly, he was reminded of how furious Uncle Vernon would be if he wasn't home to make supper, and yelped as he leapt to his feet. "I have to go!"

"Woah, woah, take it easy, little guy."

Harry scowled at the nick name.

"Before you take off, I thought I'd give you something."

"Like…a present?" Harry asked, shocked and slightly gleeful at the prospect of getting a gift from his newfound cousin.

Jean's eyes drifted off as he considered this. "Sort of."

"What is it?"

He pulled out what appeared to be an old, ornate deck of cards from his pocket. "I'm gonna give you some wisdom, kid."

Harry sat back down hesitantly, looking at the deck of cards that Jean was holding out for him. Slowly, he took the deck, relishing the electric rush that ran through his finger tips and up his arms when he touched them. It was like fire, and cold water, and a fresh breeze – like he could feel the blood pumping through his veins, like it called out to the antique stack of cards in his hands, ingraining the reminiscent, familiar feeling into his skin.

"Huh, they've taken to you already. Cut the deck," Jean instructed, sharply jerking Harry from his astonishment.

Harry did so, and handed the deck back to Jean, who was humming along with the record player. Haphazardly, Jean shuffled the deck, his hands running over the card in smooth, reflexive motions as he started to sing, or rather, mumble as he did so,

"_Been dazed and confused, for so long it's not true…"_

His skilled movements halted suddenly, and he gingerly drew seven cards, placing them face down in a neat half circle on the table.

Harry stared at the arrangement of cards, feeling a strange familiarity as he observed the patterns on the backs of the cards and the way they rested on the table. "What now?"

Jean grinned as he overturned the first card, revealing the image of two wolves standing at the edge of a pond with a crayfish in it, between two distant towers, howling at a bright orb in the sky. "The moon," Jean intoned with a raised eyebrow, "That's your past, Harry – full of illusions, fear, doubt, and lies. Don't sound like much fun."

Harry's eyes bugged out as he listened to Jean, the man's gravelly, slightly slurring voice transforming into a low, dreamy tenor.

He overturned the card just below it, revealing the image of a bright sun, with an infant riding a white horse. "Your present, the sun, enlightenment," Jean suddenly grinned, "That would be my doing."

Harry looked at him oddly, but remained silent.

Jean overturned another card, revealing the image of a man holding a chalice and a wand. "What will influence you, the magician! What a surprise. Hidden talents, cleverness, and creativity, Harry, they'll take you far." He overturned another card, revealing a beastly monster, holding the chains that bound a naked man and woman. "Ooh…the Devil. You will have to overcome temptation…you'll be tempted, tempted to run away, to lose hope, to use your talents for things you shouldn't, nasty stuff like that."

"You know," Harry interrupted, "It's very hard to take you seriously when you talk like that. It doesn't sound very wise at all."

Jean rolled his eyes, and overturned another card, revealing a tall, skeletal figure. "Death. Your expectations…you expect change, rebirth, the death of what you know now." He overturned another card, showing an elderly man holding a lantern in the dark. "The hermit. It would be wise to sit and wait, kid, learn all you can, and prepare for what's coming. Enjoy the silence while it lasts" Ghosting his hand over the last card, he flipped it over. "The wheel of fortune." At this, he outright laughed, a rich, melodious, and honest sound, and yet, at the same time, sad. "Yep, you've got great things ahead of you, Harry." He gathered all the cards back into the deck, and stood, Harry following.

"What was that?"

Jean winked. "Divination. Cartomancy, actually. You see Harry, all wizards can use divination, but very few are actually good at it. It's in the blood, you see. And one of our ancestors, well, let's just say that she was an oracle that broke her vows, and did the dirty."

"Huh?"

"Meh, look it up later."

"Sorry, look what up?" Harry asked faintly, his mind reeling.

"Uh…Pythia. Look up the Pythia. Family history's important, after all."

"Er, right."

"Oh, and here!" Jean handed the deck of cards to Harry, who took them, but frowned questioningly.

"Why?"

Jean shrugged. "They seem to like you. Keep 'em. Someone's gotta carry on the family legacy." He retrieved another, larger deck from his pocket, handing them also to Harry. "This one's the Minor Arcana, that one's the Major Arcana. They're tarot, cards, Harry, old, special ones, been used by our family for centuries, very in tune with our magic. There are lots of ways to perform divination, but cards are my favorite. I have a feeling you'll like it too. It's like poker, but ya win wisdom instead of money. The only thing is, wisdom won't buy you booze…not usually, anyway. Cuz there was that one time in New Orleans that I...uh, never mind, it'd be too hard to censor that one. Anyway, the cards are yours."

"And…you're just giving them to me?"

"Yup. They got to go to someone. They'll serve you well. But listen, Harry, the bigger deck, the Minor deck, they're for everyday use, for little things, like joints."

Harry frowned at the comparison, but refrained from commenting.

"But the Major Arcana, they're a big deal, like meth – only use 'em when you need 'em."

"But…you just used them now."

"Ah, but Harry, now, this is a momentous occasion. Our meeting! Big stuff! Stuff of legends, this."

Harry giggled quietly, smiling fondly at his…older cousin.

"Ha! So you can smile." He ruffled Harry's tumultuous mop of raven hair. "You're a good kid." He smiled. "Well time you got home, I s'pose."

Harry nodded, but blinked when he suddenly found himself alone, standing in front of Number 4 Privet Drive, the cuts on his hands and knees vanished, and the only proof of his surreal meeting with Jean Alliette being the two decks of cards in his hands.

* * *

The next day, right after school, Harry rushed to the old abandoned building that he had met Jean in the previous day. This time, he took care to break all the glass in the window so that he could climb through with ease, crawling out of the cupboard and into the greyish, concrete room. He found it empty. The table was free of any dubious substances, and Jean's ratty pillows were nowhere to be found. The only visage of the man's presence was found in the faint aromatic smell wafting through the stagnant air, and the record player in the corner, a record still spinning as a crooning voice sang quietly,

"_There's a lady who's sure, all that glitters is gold  
And she's buying the stairway to heaven.  
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed  
With a word she can get what she came for.  
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying the stairway to heaven._

"_There's a sign on the wall, but she wants to be sure  
'Cause you know, sometimes words have two meanings.  
In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,  
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.  
Ooh, it makes me wonder,  
Ooh, it makes me wonder…"_

Harry hummed the curious, enchanting song as he plodded home, determined not to let tears of disappointment and vague loneliness stream down his face. He bit his lip as he stumbled through the white, prim door of Number 4 Privet Drive, barely bracing himself for the bellowed greeting:

"BOY!"

He cringed as he followed the voice into the kitchen, timidly ducking his head, looking away from his uncle's rapidly purpling pudgy face. "Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"What. Is. This." The man spat.

Harry's head reluctantly rose, his gaze following Vernon's trembling hand, eyes widening in horror when they landed on two familiar decks of cards sitting on the table.

"What is the meaning of this? Bringing these…these freaky devil cards into my house!"

"Please…please…Uncle Vernon…I just found them and…"

"Stop your snivelling, you miserable, ungrateful boy!" He snatched up the cards, waddling into the living room and stopping in front of the hearth.

Harry froze, not even able to protest as Vernon flung the cards in the fire, grinning wickedly as they lit up, rapidly disintegrating into ash.

"There will be no freakishness in this house, boy, you'd do well to remember that!"

Harry nodded blankly, his face set and determined not to show his uncle his tears. He would cry himself to sleep that night.

* * *

"WAKE UP, BOY!"

Harry rubbed his eyes furiously as they blinked open, wiping away any stray tears left from the night before. Sniffling, he reached for his glasses, waiting for his eyes to adjust as he slipped them on.

Stretching as he stood from his bed, he suddenly froze, as nausea suddenly overwhelmed him. His body tensed, and he started coughing, gagging violently at the stinging sensation in his throat, which steadily intensified as he tried desperately to remain quite, lest he be heard. A moment later, he started to retch – but nothing came out…at first. One card, two cards, and then finally a myriad of paper cards spilled out of his mouth, fluttering down onto his bed like leaves in the fall. Giving one last cough, Harry collapsed to his knees, sweating and shaking, teeth chattering, as he slowly, fearfully lifted his eyes to his bed, and letting out a shocked laugh when he saw, splayed over his sheets, the seventy-eight cards of the Major and Minor Arcana.

A gleeful grin formed on Harry's face. The cards _did_ like him.

* * *

Your thoughts and comments are appreciated :)


	2. Of Plans and Parchment

**Disclaimer:** Never understood the point of these – just states the obvious. Whatever belongs to J.K. Rowling belongs to J.K. Rowling. There.

**AN:** Thanks for getting past the first chapter without running in the opposite direction :)  
And yes, I know, the letter comes too early, but it worked out so nicely…  
Shorter chapter this time…it's transitory, merging with cannon…sort of.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Of Plans and Parchment**

By the time his eleventh birthday was nearing, Harry was quite comfortable with his well-established routine. It had taken a great deal of ingenious planning and clever subterfuge, but he had worked out all the kinks, and was quite pleased with himself.

The idea had sprung to mind after the third time he had visited the secret room in the isolated old alley way, which he had dubbed 'Jean's Hollow.' He had, once again, found the room abandoned, yet with the record player still projecting Robert Plants' voice. Harry had been bewildered as to how the Jean's Hollow remained undisturbed and undiscovered with the music playing continuously – he also wondered how the record player was _still_ running after days. But then struck him – Jean had somehow magicked the place, and left it for him. Following this gleeful catharsis, Harry postulated that he could remain hidden there as long as he liked. At first, the prospect of running away from the Dursleys seemed quite appealing, but held some irreconcilable complications, such as how he would survive on his own without any money, so he scrapped that plan and resolved to make the hollow his very own 'Fortress of Solitude' - a retreat, but not a home.

The next stage of his plan took some time to implement. Upon discovering his 'wizardness,' Harry began to try to make his magical accidents a little less accidental. He started by stealing spoons and playing with them in his cupboard; ignoring the cliché, he started with bending spoons, and after weeks of what at first seemed like futile effort, levitating them. He had been positively ecstatic when he first succeeded, and after a few more (meaning, of course, several hundred) tries, moved on to bigger things, like moving the rickety table in the hollow, or floating the broken glass. At first, his efforts were sorely taxing (especially considering that he was always in a rush to get back to Number 4 Privet lest his absence be noted), leaving him exhausted and sleepy – but his fatigue was quickly overcome with thrill. It was similar to when he had first touched the Tarot cards, he realized – an earthy, ancient energy coursing through his veins, swirling around him at command; it was intoxicating, and left him wanting more. However, Harry learnt the hard way that it was far too easy to get lost in the feeling, when he blacked out during his practice time and was left with a nasty bump on his head. He worked diligently on control after that, and within a little less than half a year, he felt he was showing stellar progress.

Which led him to the next stage – in order to spend more time in Jean's Hollow, he would need a valid excuse, but the Dursleys never believed anything he said, much like he never believed anything they said. But the three Dursleys listened to each other; he would need to find one of them to cover for him. Vernon was out of the question, period. Petunia was far too neurotic and irrational to work with. Which left Dudley, who had been wary around Harry ever since the incident in the school yard. All it took was a brief demonstration of his new skills, and Dudley fearfully accepted the task of covering for his cousin. Harry felt bad threatening the poor boy, he really did – Dudley may have been an unintelligent bully, but he was family, and, for that matter, human – but it had to be done. Having several afternoons a week to do as he pleased, Harry set out to the library, immediately taking out as many books as he could find on Divination, France, and the Pythia, along with several other selections that caught his eye, and storing them in Jean's Hollow.

Whilst learning a small amount of French, Harry was fascinated to find that the Pythia were once an order of oracle priestesses in Delphi, Greece. People would come from miles around to hear their words – farmers, merchants, philosophers, and even kings. According to legend, they were the oracles of the god Apollo – the god of the sun, light, truth, prophecy, healing, the arts, and many, many, more things. The guy certainly got around. And one of his symbols was the Python, a great dragon he slew as a child – apparently, his ability to speak with snakes had something to do with that. It did not take long for Harry to connect the dots and postulate that Apollo's power was gifted to the oracles, and to avoid spreading it among men, the Pythia were forbidden from copulating during their term as priestesses. So _that_ was what Jean meant by 'doing the dirty' – Harry still wasn't clear on the specifics, but after listening to 'Black Dog' play a few times on Jean's record player, he had a vague notion. The specifics were later filled in, in between much blushing and sputtering, by an encyclopedia.

Harry also did a great deal of research on Cartomancy, and other forms of divination – but Jean was right, the cards were most fun. After learning to shuffle properly, and memorizing the meanings of the cards and some interesting spreads, Harry started using the Minor Arcana to try and predict little things about his day. At first, he was quite unsuccessful – he couldn't make sense of what he found – but just as he was about to lose hope a little voice in the back of his head began to whisper. It was soft, distant, and smooth, almost singing, soothing in a way that could only be heavenly. He could not clearly hear what was said, but suddenly, he knew how interpret the cards, and much to his glee – though jumping up and shouting victoriously in class didn't go over well with the teacher – he predicted (well sort of…he knew it would surprising, disappointing, and difficult) that there would be a pop geography quiz. It took some time, but he felt that he was starting to get the hang of it.

That was why Harry was not at all surprised at the events closely preceding his eleventh birthday. Starting in June, he had begun to find strange readings, most taking on a warning tone, saying that he should be prepared. At the cards' urgings, he eventually connected this to what Jean had said about the 'Wheel of Fortune.' Something big was coming – what he didn't know, was that it would arrive in the form of a letter.

* * *

The morning was bright and crisp, pleasantly cool for July, as the smell of garden herbs and summer flowers drifted down Privet Drive. Being forced to wake did not dampen Harry's mood, neither did the fact that it was Dudley's birthday, as he skipped into the kitchen, cracking some eggs and retrieving some bacon to fry while humming 'Houses of the Holy.' At Vernon's irritated shout, he shut up quickly, but a smile remained plastered on his face – the sun was shining, and Apollo was happy. That day was special, the cards said so.

Setting down some eggs and bacon on the table, mostly ignored for his cousin, who was nearly preening in all the attention Petunia was showering him with, Harry felt quite self-satisfied with the fact that he managed not to cringe at his aunt's screeching of praises for her fat lump of a son.

After he had served breakfast to the Dursleys, Harry was ordered to get the mail. Vernon glared at him suspiciously when he happily acquiesced, but simply shook his head and muttered something about 'freaks,' turning his eyes back to Dudley, his face transforming into one of satisfaction and pride – an expression he had never once pointed toward Harry, but that was about the furthest thing from what was on Harry's mind.

Harry's heart had begun thumping as he started to make his way to the door, causing him to frown in confusion – was something going to happen? Since he started practicing with his cards, he would occasionally predict something without any assistance at all; but this was different, this wasn't just a vague feeling, a hidden instinct – it was raw, overwhelming anticipation. And Harry liked it.

Reaching down, he picked up the pile of letters, idly sorting through them, until he came to one that caused him to stop and gasp. It was not the soft parchment, the seal binding it, or the calligraphic long hand that shocked him – it was who it was addressed to: one _Harry James Potter_….in the _cupboard under the stairs._

"BOY!"

"Coming!" Hurriedly, he stuffed the letter down his over-sized grey shirt, scurrying into the kitchen where Aunt Petunia was still doting on Dudley, 'Diddykins the birthday boy,' as he handed the remaining post to Vernon.

Vernon eyed him suspiciously. "What took you so long, boy?"

"_Maybe your exceptionally large mass caused a relativistic time warp between the kitchen and the hallway."_ He didn't need any cards to know that that comment would cause more trouble than it was worth, so he settled on, "I tripped. Quietly."

Vernon sneered at him, but didn't say anything more.

Whilst Vernon and Petunia were occupied consoling Dudley over his decreased number of birthday presents, Harry resisted scoffing and instead sneaked off, creeping back into his cupboard. Once inside, he sat down on his bed, hand shaking slightly as he turned on his bedside light and opened the letter, reading:

'_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)…_

"What the bloody hell is a Mugwump?" Was it important? Probably not - why would anyone name something important a Mugwump? But then again, it was _supreme..._

'…_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress.'_

Harry stared at the page, outraged. "I don't have an owl! What's wrong with plain old post!" He let out a sigh of relief when the voice in his head told him not to worry about it, and then the realization hit him: "_I'm going to magic school! There's a school for magic, and I've been invited!" _He was hard pressed not to leap up and shout. Of course, the thought of a school for magic had crossed his mind once or twice after Jean had told him that there was a whole world of wizards – but now, it was real, he knew that there really was a school full of kids with magic, just like him, and he was invited. Grinning, he looked down to read the next page:

'_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_UNIFORM  
First-year students will require:  
sets of plain work robes (black)  
plain pointed hat (black) for day wear  
pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)  
Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.'_

"You've got to be joking." _A pointed_ _hat?_

_'COURSE BOOKS  
All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ by Miranda Goshawk_

A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot_

Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling_

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch_

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Spore_

Magical Drafts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger_

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander_

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble'_

"What the hell kind of names are those? _Bathilda Bagshot_? It's straight out of the Lord of the Rings!"

_'OTHER EQUIPMENT_

_1 wand  
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
1 set glass or crystal phials  
1 telescope  
1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.'_

Harry was halfway between grimacing and cackling when he put the letter down. He settled for sighing, and scratched the lightning shaped scar on his head. A year ago he had recognized it as resembling a Sigel (also known as Sowilo), or the Sun rune, symbolizing light, happiness, divine secrets, and general all-around good luck. Fat lot of good it did him.

He was thrilled, on one hand, that other wizards had _finally _found him. _"It's about bloody time!" _But on the other, the letter was _weird_. For one, it was hand-written on parchment, let alone the contents. These people have gone to _magic school_, could they not even use a word processor? He shook his head. Either way, he was accepted to magic school – an event nearly as unexpected as his impromptu meeting with Jean. It was an opportunity he had to take. Hastily reaching onto the shelf beside his bed, he pulled out a sheet of blank paper and a pencil, and began to write his reply, keeping in mind the formal tone of the letter:

'_Dear Deputy Headmistress,_

'_I am honoured to accept your invitation to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am very excited for the start of term…'_

He briefly considered asking where on the face of the earth he was supposed to find spell books, cauldrons, and dragon hide gloves, but dismissed the thought, assuring himself that he would be able to find them with a bit of creative divination. However, there was one matter he was baffled on:

'_However, there is the matter of actually getting to school – you did not mention an address, and so I am unsure of how to get there._

_Thank you,_

_Harry James Potter.'_

It was simple, short, and rather sweet. Harry nodded and folded the paper into a makeshift envelope, writing Minerva McGonagall's name on the back, along with the name of the school. He bit his lip as he considered how he would find an owl – did wizards have specially trained owls? How did they expect average British citizens to get their hands on one? Suddenly, the thought struck him: the letter must have arrived somehow, mostly likely in the same mode as the expected response. Holding onto that thought hopefully, he stealthily rushed outside, pleased to find a brown owl perched on the Dursley's car, blinking expectantly at him. Harry cautiously approached it, holding out the letter to the owl, causing it to look at the folded paper curiously, plucking it out of his hand. With a gesture eerily similar to nodding, the bird ruffled its feathers, and promptly flew off down the street.

Harry smiled victoriously, his expression morphing into a grin as he burst out vociferously,

"I'm going to magic school!"

Gleefully taking in the neighbours' shocked and slightly disturbed faces, he marched back into the house with confidence, cheerily interrupting the Dursleys as they were discussing Dudley's birthday trip to the London Zoo.

"Excuse me, but would you mind dropping me in London on your way? I have some freakish business to take care of, you see."

* * *

So, what do you think?


	3. Of Goblins and Gifts

**Disclaimer:** Roses are red, Violets are blue, I don't own anything, neither do you.

**AN:** I appreciate your reviews, just so you know, especially ones that tell me exactly what you like, dislike or are not sure about - it really, truly helps, and on top of that, it's fascinating for me to read. Thanks for that, by the way – the whole reading thing :)

* * *

**Chapter 3: Of Goblins and Gifts**

Shocking his relatives into doing as he asked was a success – they had dropped him off at a street corner in downtown London, no questions asked; rather zombie-ish dazed looks on their faces. Hopefully the psychological trauma wouldn't ruin their trip to the zoo. Taking one last look at his handy-work, Harry could not help but let out a ferocious grin as the Dursley's car faded into the bustle of automobiles, pedestrians, fog, and exhaust.

Now, most ten-year-olds would be quite intimidated, stranded on a street corner, surrounded by unfamiliar clamour and imposing structures of impressive height, not knowing where they were going – but Harry wasn't, for he had a plan, a brilliant one. He'd never practiced Rhabdomancy before, but had once carved some select runes on a stick he found in the garden just in case. Apparently, the gods of fate had been smiling on him that day…for once. Normally Harry wouldn't pay any mind to a simple, boring practice like Rhabdomancy, because simple and boring was no fun at all, and definitely not his style - but now he was glad he had done his research, for it would certainly come in handy for finding what he needed. Steeling himself, he marched purposefully out of the crowd, finding a bare spot on the sidewalk and crouching down. He placed one end of the stick on the sidewalk, holding the other between his palms; and with one quick jerking motion, he spun the stick like a top, waiting for it to topple over, pointing him in the direction he needed to go.

In hindsight, he would realize, it probably appeared absurdly surreal to bystanders – a scrawny, messy-haired youth in clothes twice his size, plodding down a sidewalk in London, stopping ever so often to crouch down and spin a stick. It was the only way, however, and Harry had easily concluded that the benefits of looking like an absolute nutter outweighed any cons.

It was ere long that his stick led him down Charring Cross Road. The street was bursting with life, patrons exiting and entering the plethora of business buildings that stalwartly walled the bustling street and sidewalks. While crowded, however, Harry was able to navigate through the crowd quite easily, not at all feeling like human sandwich meat as he had a few blocks down. At the next street corner, as he had traversed another block, he once again crouched down and spun his stick, finding it pointing across the street. He waited for the next light, and skipped across the crosswalk eagerly, stopping to spin the stick again on the other side. This time, however, the stick shook with anticipation, pointing Harry down the sidewalk, toward some old, greyish shops. With wide eyes and a grin, Harry picked up the stick, feeling it tug him toward one of the buildings, a rustic, ruddy looking structure between a bookstore and a record store. He couldn't see well into the windows, but sounds of life faintly emanated through the heavy wooden door – what he could see clearly, though, was the sign hanging above the door, reading, _The Leaky Cauldron._

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, not suspicious at all."

He paused briefly, licking his lips with anticipation – but taking a deep breath, he hesitated no more as he opened the door and crossed over the threshold, stepping for the first time into the Wizarding World.

He found himself in what appeared to be a dingy old pub, dimly lit by several lanterns in the corners and hanging from iron frames chained to the ceiling, the furniture of worn wood, polish and paint fading, and the walls covered with paintings and odd images of all sorts. Only a few patrons sat at the tables, off in a far corner, some enjoying a scrumptious looking meal, others sipping a mug of…well, Harry didn't really know – it was not the smell of normal ale that wafted through the warm atmosphere of the pub. Now, Harry didn't know why his stick had led him to a _pub_ of all places – perhaps he drew the runes wrong, or maybe it broke that one time Dudley touched it. He shook his head – no, he had a good feeling, and considering he spent most of his life without such feelings, he was sure his luck would hold – and gathering his courage, stepped up toward the counter, where a bald, elderly man was attentively towelling a mug.

"Er…excuse me."

The man's head snapped up, his wide, peering eyes meeting Harry's bright emerald ones. He took a moment to cast his glance around the pub. "My dear boy, where are your parents?" Harry noticed that the poor man barely had any teeth – one would think wizards would by safe from dental trouble, but apparently not.

Harry frowned. "Dead."

The man winced, a look of sympathy crossing over his face. "Oh, oh dear."

Harry had the decency to look a little sheepish – it wasn't the man's fault, after all; he couldn't have known. "Uh…never mind that. You see, I need to shop for school supplies." He held up his Hogwarts letter, which he had stuffed in his pocket. He didn't know what else to say.

The man's eyes flashed with recognition. "Off to Hogwarts? You'll be needing to visit Diagon Alley, then. Tell me, boy, what're you called? I'm Tom, see, the owner of this fine establishment."

Harry shook the offered hand. "Harry Potter, sir. It's a pleasure."

The man's nigh toothless mouth fell open, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. "Good Lord, is this — you're—? Bless my soul." He scurried around the counter to shake Harry's hand again, this time with far more vigour. "Harry Potter… what an honour. Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

"Y-you know me?" Harry asked uneasily, suddenly recalling how Jean had shown similar recognition when he heard his name. "What do you mean, welcome back?"

Tom's voice dropped, his eyes wide with bewilderment. "You mean…you don't know?"

"Know what?" Harry's voice had come very near to snapping; he was frustrated, _very_ frustrated. Why did everyone seem to know more about him than he did?

"Mr. Potter," Tom began slowly, carefully, "You do not know what happened the night your parents died?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "They died in a car crash."

A look of horror passed over Tom's face, as he looked over the pub, and back to Harry, "Follow me."

Tom led Harry around the corner, ushering him through a thick wooden door, into a tiny backyard, populated by only a rickety trashcan and an unevenly cobbled brick wall. He turned toward Harry, "I don't know who told you that, Mr. Potter, but your parents were murdered, by You-Know-Who."

Harry shook his head, scowling. "No, I don't know who."

"We do not speak his name," said Tom nervously, looking at him strangely, "The darkest wizard of all time. Started a war, he did, and your parents fought against him. He came for them one night, ten years ago."

"A dark lord?" Harry asked skeptically, "Like Sauron? Or Darth Vader?"

Tom blinked. "I'm afraid I've never heard of a dark lord with such a name."

"Never mind. So my parents, they were wizards to?"

"Oh, of course Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded, then frowned suspiciously. "Wait…if…You-Know-Who…" he began unsurely.

Tom nodded.

"Killed them, then why am I still alive?"

"Why, Mr. Potter, that's why you're famous – you're the one who stopped the dark lord!"

"I was a baby!" Harry remarked flatly.

"Yes, yes you were – that's what was so amazin'! He cast the killing curse at you, unblockable, that one, and it bounced right off you and onto him!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "There must be a better explanation than that."

Tom only shrugged.

He'd have to look into that later - _someone_ would have to have a more educated opinion. He shook his head and sighed. "Right. Well, thanks for telling me." He frowned in deep thought. "I'm famous, then?"

"Oh, yes, very. You're the Boy-Who-Lived!"

Harry rolled his eyes, again. He was coming to believe that wizards really weren't all that clever. "Right…then, it shouldn't be too hard to find someone who will lend me money?"

Tom's eyes bugged out. "Why would you need to do that? Your parents wouldn't leave you without anything, Mr. Potter. The Potter family inheritance belongs to you!"

Harry's eyes widened. "I have money!"

"Of course! The goblins at Gringotts, you go to them."

"Goblins? Gringotts?"

"The wizarding bank. You'll find it in Diagon Alley, with just about anything else. Down to the right, I do believe."

There were goblins...who ran a bank...called Gringotts...in a diagonally..? Diagonally what? "What...?" he began, but then the realization hit him. "Diagon _Alley_! Diagon Alley? Did they name it on purpose?"

"I should think so, Mr. Potter. Rather hard to name something not on purpose. To get it in, just touch the brick three up and two across from the trash can."

Harry nodded gratefully (though he still wasn't entirely clear on what a Diagon Alley was…perhaps it was slanted), smiling slightly at the elderly man. "Thank you, Tom."

"Oh, you are welcome any time, Mr. Potter. It was an honour, an honour."

Not quite knowing what to say to that, Harry turned to the brick wall, reaching up cautiously to tap the brick. For a split second, he wondered if he had not done it properly, but then, the bricks moved, dancing apart in an intricate pattern, the complexity but a faint reflection of what lay beyond. Apparently, Diagon Alley was a shopping district.

That much was obvious. The 'alley's' sides were lined seamlessly with shop after shop, bustling adults and children alike, the cobblestone street beneath them barely visible. The whole place had a rather antique feel to it, everything crafted of polished glass and neatly worked wood, which complemented the archaic clothing style that seemed to be commonplace for wizards. Dresses and long coats of fine velvet and silk seemed to slip in and out of stores and through crowds, leading Harry to believe that there was not, in fact, some cosplay event going on; rather, wizards liked to dress in anything reminiscing on the late Renaissance period to the fashion at the turn of the century.

Harry chided himself, however, on being so easily distracted – shopping and gawking could wait. He needed to find Gringott's. Tom had said that it was to the right, so stick in hand, Harry veered right, slipping into the crowd as the brick wall shuffled shut. Fortunately for Harry, the street was not as crowded as it had appeared from his original vantage point, and he was left with enough room to maneuver easily as he searched for anything resembling a bank. _"If I was a goblin and I built a bank what would it look like_?" It was a nonsense question, really, seeing as Harry had never even met a goblin, but it helped him feel as though he had some direction as to where he was going, as he struggled to see over fellow pedestrians, scanning the alley for _something_ 'bank-ish.' His search, however, suddenly came to a halt. _"If I was a goblin, I would make my bank big, imposing, and white._" For sure enough, before him, stood a great white building, labeled with the stark, deeply carven letters, 'GRINGOTTS BANK.'

Purposefully, belying his nervousness, he strode up the whitewashed steps to the bank, glancing down at the short, humanoid creatures ushering him in, their ears pointed and long and their eyes black and beady. So _those_ were goblins. They weren't as intimidating as he thought they'd be - oh well. Pushing open the heavy, polished wooden doors, Harry found another set of silver doors inside, at which he paused to read an inscription at the entrance:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed  
Of what awaits the sin of greed  
For those who take, but do not earn,  
Must pay most dearly in their turn.  
So if you seek beneath our floors  
A treasure that was never yours,  
Thief, you have been warned, beware  
Of finding more than treasure there._

Harry grinned at the short soliloquy. "Brilliant, I like that. It would make a good song."

Entering the bank, Harry's eyes went wide as he observed the vast rows of busy tellers, all manned by more of the small, leering creatures, which he assumed were goblins. The floor was of smooth, polished marble, the hall lit by brightly shining, yet cobwebbed crystal chandeliers. Harry scanned the hall, eyes coming to rest on one of the unoccupied tellers.

Trotting up to the goblin, who was busy at work, he looked over the counter, trying to make eye contact with the preoccupied creature beyond. "Er, excuse me?"

The goblin glanced up at him expectantly.

"I, uh, my parents, I think they left something here for me."

The goblin simply looked unimpressed.

Harry sighed and went on, "They're names were James and Lily Potter…"

The goblin's eyes widened with recognition, and Harry rolled his eyes. Even the _goblins_ knew about him. "Key?"

Harry felt hear rise up in his face. "I, er, don't have one. My guardians, they're muggles, you see…"

The goblin quirked an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Instead, he turned around and called, "Griphook!"

Another goblin appeared, stalking through one of the swinging doors beside the teller and looking up at the other goblin.

"Mr. Potter wishes to access his account, but is without a key. I trust you will take care of him?"

Griphook glanced between the two, but then nodded, beckoning for Harry to follow him.

Meanwhile, Harry's mind was reeling as he recalled the poem at the entrance. Was he in trouble? Did they think he was imposter? What would they do with him? What did the goblin mean by 'take care of him'?

Griphook had led Harry out of the hall through an arched doorway, into an office-like room, furnished with only a desk and two chairs, gilded with gold. Griphook made his way to the chair behind the desk, reaching into one of the drawers. Harry watched with fascination which quickly morphed into horror as Griphook withdrew a small golden basin, and then an ornate dagger and placed them on the desk.

"Now Mr. Potter…"

"Please, don't kill me!"

The goblin looked at him with overt amusement. "I'm not going to kill you, Mr. Potter. That would mean losing a potentially valuable customer."

Harry gulped audibly. "Oh." _"That's the only reason, then?"_ "Th-then, what's the dagger for?"

Griphook gestured for Harry to take a seat, which he reluctantly did. "As you are not in possession of your key, we must take a special blood test to affirm your identity."

Harry nodded. That was reasonable. "So, I just cut myself and drip some blood into the bowl."

Griphook dipped his head in acquiescence, pushing the two items toward Harry.

Without flinching, Harry sliced the dagger through his left index finger, watching in awe as the blood dribbled from his finger, falling into the basin, moving of its own accord and tracing his name, _Harry James Potter,_ over the shimmering gold. "Brilliant."

Griphook nodded appreciatively. "It is goblin magic – it cannot be fooled by wizarding magic."

Harry perked up at this. "What's the difference between goblin magic and wizard magic? Except, er, the obvious…"

Griphook cast him an amused but reprimanding look. "Now, everything seems to be in order. Firstly, you can have a new key commissioned if you so wish, after which the old one will be null."

Harry blinked. "Where _is_ my old key?"

Griphook frowned and reached into the desk, pulling out a rather thick file, flipping through it with expert ease. "Last we checked, it was in the possession of one Albus Dumbledore."

Harry's eyes flashed with recognition. "The Hogwarts headmaster! Wait, why does he have my key?"

Griphook shook his head. "That, I do not know. Nothing can be done about it, except the creation of a new key."

"Huh...oh well. How long will that take?"

Griphook grinned greedily. "That depends on how much you're willing to pay."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "And that would depend on how much is in my vaults."

"Oh, believe me, Mr. Potter, you have more than enough." He reached into the file with a glint in his eye, retrieving a single sheet of parchment, handing it to Harry.

_Vault 687: Potter Trust Fund – open  
15,000 Galleons_

_Vault 708: Potter Family Vault – restricted entry until July 1997 (note: current heir's majority)  
4,576,082 Galleons  
Potter Family Artifacts (private, uncatalogued)  
Potter Family Estates (private, uncatalogued)_

_Vault 711: Black Family Vault – tentative claim (note: in light of paternal grandmother's blood, as well as Black Heir's Will, unapproved)  
7,790,455 Galleons  
Black Family Artifacts (private, uncatalogued)  
Black Family Estates (private, uncatalogued)_

Harry gaped at the page, looking up at Griphook faintly. "Wh-what is the exchange rate between Galleons and Pounds?"

"Four point eighty-seven pounds per Galleon."

"I'm rich…" Harry gasped, a gleeful giggle escaped him. "I'm rich!" He grinned at Griphook. "Take as much as you need from my trust fund to make sure the key is ready in about two hours."

Griphook grinned back, and nodded, taking down some notes.

"Just one thing, though…"

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Well, I understand the first two; the trust fund is mine, and I can't access the family vault until I'm seventeen…"

Griphook nodded.

"But what about Vault 711? What does tentative claim mean?"

Griphook glanced at the page, and then at something in his file. "James Potter's mother was one Dorea Potter nee Black. Under normal circumstances, this would give you no claim, but Sirius Black, the last heir of the Black family was listed as your godfather, and bequeathed the entire vault and all adjacent estates to you."

"Then why is my claim tentative?" Harry cringed, hating how greedy he was sounding – apparently, the goblin was rubbing off on him.

"Sirius Black was convicted as an accomplice in James and Lily Potter's murder, and is currently in Azkaban."

The colour drained from Harry's face instantly. "What's Azkaban?"

"The most secure wizarding prison in the world."

"S-so," Harry began, his voice wavering, "My godfather…he's the reason my p-parents…are d-dead?"

"That's what they say," replied Griphook, his voice devoid of sympathy.

Harry looked up, and frowned uneasily. "That's what they say? What about the evidence?"

"I'm afraid I know little of the matter, save for the fact that Sirius Black received no trial."

"What!" Harry cried, outraged.

"After the war, the Ministry of Magic was very eager to capture all the Death Eaters. All suspected of war crimes were thrown in prison without a trial."

Harry supposed the Ministry of Magic was the magical government – it made sense, after all. "Death Eaters?"

"The Dark Lord's followers."

Harry nodded, sinking into his chair. His godfather, a convicted Death Eater? Was he really? Would a trial have shown otherwise? Was there any way to push a trial? He shook his head – he had other matters to take care of. "Right…thank you sir. I'm afraid I'm new to all of this."

"Of course, Mr. Potter. You may call me Griphook, though, as that is my name."

Harry smiled amiably. "Then I'm Harry, to you."

The goblin frowned. "Harry."

Harry nodded eagerly, then went on, "Now, about withdrawing some money from my vault."

Griphook nodded. "There is one matter that we must first attend to."

"Oh?"

"Two years ago, a man by the name of Jean Alliette left something in our care, requesting that we give it to you at our earliest convenience." Griphook reached into the desk, retrieving a neatly folded envelope, and handing it to Harry.

Harry, whose heart rate had accelerated rapidly upon hearing his cousin's name, took the envelope with care, opening it slowly, with trepidation, hard pressed to keep his hands from shaking as he read:

_Dear Brat,_

_Yes Harry, that means you. Now, I thought I'd get straight to the point – if you're reading this, then I'm probably dead. Right, bad way to start a letter, but it had to be done. You see, Harry, that's the reason I came to find you – I'm dying of a rare disease (no, it can't be cured, even with magic), and I needed someone to carry on the family legacy; our bloodline is spread all across Europe (you'll probably meet a few Seers in your life time), but only in a few does the blood of the Pythia still run strong. You looked that up, right? Well, the Pythia originally got their power from Apollo, as you probably know. What you might not know, is that Apollo was the reincarnation of the Egyptian god Thoth – look him up some time. So, in case you didn't know the connection between the two, the Alliette's are descended from what the muggles call Gypsies. Now, you might be thinking 'I'm not a Gypsy!' but I did some research, and it turns out your maternal grandmother was, a squib actually, so my whole cousin theory, it checks out. _

_Since our family is kind of…scattered, only one person ever gets the family inheritance per generation – it's up to the previous heir to pass it on to the next. I chose you, Harry. So you get everything that's been passed down from true Seer to true Seer over the years. Admittedly, it's not much, mostly books, but I added some stuff of my own for you – my record collection, my favourite t-shirt, my phone book (some hot girls from LA, New York, Barcelona, Port au Prince, etc. in it), and some other treats. You'll find all the stuff in a shrunken trunk in the envelope; a simple Engorgio charm should unshrink it, and a password will open it. I'll let you guess the password on your own. _

_Now, down to the tricky stuff. As a true Seer, you'll be pretty talented at most forms of divination, I should think. Here's the thing, though: since you get your power from the gods, namely Apollo, not from you're magical core, the gods can screw around with it. Usually, they mind their own business, since no one worships them anymore…but be careful nonetheless. Another thing you'll need to watch out for is prophecies – most weaker Seers will not remember making prophecies…I have a feeling you will, though. Prophecies are tricky things – if I had my way, they'd all be destroyed, and no one would have anything to do with them. But they exist – here's the thing though, they don't have any power until someone besides the Seer hears them. Keep that in mind._

_Now then, some advice, little cousin, words of the wise: first, always charge when you give a reading. I don't care if it's a damn palm-reading – nothing's bought for free in this world, brat, take advantage of that. Next, don't tell anyone about this Seer stuff; if you want to practice on someone else, do it in disguise, or something clever like that. Seers are pretty rare, but Seers who have real control over their abilities, well, there's only about one per generation. We keep to ourselves and mind our own business; that's the best policy (don't listen to anyone who tells you it's honesty). And don't tell anyone you can speak to snakes, either – it has a bad stigma here in Britain. Also, don't try to enlarge the trunk until you get to school – underage magic is restricted (well, the stuff you do with a wand, anyway), and trust me, getting arrested really isn't that great, even though it gives you a chance to screw around with the government._

_Lastly, Harry, listen closely – the next few years are not going to be easy for you…hopefully your instincts have told you as much. I meant what I said, Harry; you are a good kid, and I wish I had longer to know you. But don't expect me to come back as a ghost. I'm not that desperate. Anyway, do well, kid, make me proud. I have faith in you, and I'm proud to call you family._

_Keep it real,_

_Jean Alliette._

_P.S.  
Don't mention my name to anyone. I, uh, tend to piss off whoever I meet, in fact, I think the goblins are the first ones I've met who can stand the sight of me. So, if you don't want people out for your blood, don't mention my name. Can't have you dying too, after all._

If anyone would have entered Griphook's office at that moment, they no doubt would have been surprised to find the goblin awkwardly patting a crying Harry Potter on the back.

* * *

Reviews are a welcome delicacy.


	4. Of Wands and Waiting

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe, history owns mythology and divination, and I own a laptop.

**AN:** 1. So, another chapter…already! Hell, I'm awesome (no, not really…just wait until exams start…). This one will be very summary-ish (who wants to spend hours writing about a shopping trip, anyway?). Nevertheless, I have tried to make it as entertaining as possible.  
2. There are small passages taken straight out of the book in this chapter, only slightly modified. And if there are any spelling or grammar errors, blame it on my philosophy prof – he has us reading Hegel, and I think I just lost 50 IQ points today.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Of Wands and Waiting**

After recovering, Harry had thanked Griphook profusely, excusing his sudden outpouring of emotion by saying matter-of-factly, "It was cryin' time, now we got to fly." Years later, he would deny that those words ever came out of his mouth.

Griphook frowned, remarking that the vaults were not reached via any sort of flight, but Harry just chuckled in return and shook his head, stuffing Jean's letter and the tiny, dice-sized box that came with it into his pocket. The two had descended down into the vaults, riding on a cart of sorts; Harry had stared at it for some time, saying something about a roller-coaster, before jumping in and grinning, telling Griphook he was ready for the ride of his life, asking for more speed when the cart started up, pouting when Griphook announced that it was 'one speed only.' They descended further and further into the vacuous caverns below Gringotts, Harry continuously prying for knowledge of the magic that secured Gringotts, Griphook having to reiterate several times that it was, in fact, a goblin secret. When Harry asked if Griphook was willing to turn traitor for him, the goblin only looked at him oddly.

Upon arriving at his vault, Harry was overtaken with ecstasy when he saw his very own mountain of gold, and had leapt upon the hitherto neatly stacked pile, relishing the feel of the cold, glittering metal on his skin, and tasting the gold for good measure. Patiently, Griphook had waited for Harry to fill the provided bag with his gold, which took a good half hour, as Harry had insisted on playing with the gold for quite some time, before returning him to the surface, bidding him a fond farewell.

Finding himself back in Diagon Alley, Harry pulled out the list from his pocket, scanning it and soon deciding that before purchasing anything on the list, he needed something to carry it all in. Fortunately, he almost immediately stumbled upon a cheery old woman selling sachets at a nearby corner in the alley – but they were not just any sachets, but bottomless ones, with feather-light charms on them. Harry was thrilled with the concept of a bag that expanded with the entrance of more mass into it, and even more so with the fact that it was made to not weigh anything, enthusiastically informing the amused woman that he was sure that her products were the most brilliant things wizards had invented, and dubbing his newly-purchased item as his 'Brilliant Boundless Bag,' or B3. Now, Harry realized that owning only a simple bag could be quite inconvenient for storing his things at school; but, he reminded himself, Jean had supplied him with a trunk, which could be enlarged once he got there.

After finding his B3, Harry's next stroke of luck became evident when he stumbled across a shop labeled Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Upon spotting several other children inside being fitted with dark, robe-like clothes, Harry postulated that he could purchase his school robes inside. As it turned out, he was right. The fitting took quite some time, however, and Harry had to try quite hard to hide his fidgety boredom. He rushed anxiously out of the shop after purchasing his school apparel and stuffing them in B3, bidding a flustered Madame Malkin farewell. Upon barreling out of Madame Malkin's, skillfully avoiding any collisions, he managed to spot what looked like books in a window nearby. Trotting over, he was pleased to find himself in front of a busy bookshop going by the name Flourish and Blotts.

Once inside, Harry was hard pressed not to let out a squeal of glee – he was surrounded, nigh suffocated in _mountains, thousands _of books. Responsibly, Harry diligently retrieved all his school books first, and left his fun for after. But skillful as he was at locating books, he was left to explore the bookshop without restriction in no time at all. He spent almost an hour, he estimated, weaving his way through stacks and stacks of books, adding several titles to his pile of school texts, including _Hogwarts, a History_, which looked quite informative, and a book he assumed was on divination called _The Inner Eye_ by Cassandra Trelawny. He was also quite pleased to find a book entitled, _1001 Ways to Get Revenge without Landing Yourself in Azkaban: a Comprehensive Dictionary of Hexes and Curses, _and another called _Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More)_ by Professor Vindictus Viridian. Only when Harry's arms became quite sore did he make his way to the counter, gladly parting with the appropriate amount of Galleons. Harry left Flourish and Blotts quite satisfied – not only had his personal library grown by a factor of twelve, but he had all his books in B3, which didn't weigh anything at all - it was like an ice cream float, but instead of gaining the ability to eat ice cream and drink soda at the same time, he could buy anything he wanted and refrain from any unwanted muscle-building.

As he made his way down Diagon Alley, Harry resolved to look for a wand next. At first, he was a bit unsure on what to do about that; books are found in bookshops, and clothes are found in clothes shops, but where does one find wands? His question was answered when he stumbled across a shop labeled in letters of peeling gold over stained oak wood; Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.. Now, Harry knew absolutely nothing about wands, but he figured that if a store had been in business since 382 B.C., their products must have been of decent quality. And that was what led Harry to enter the narrow, dark, tiny shop, blinking as he hit a substantial layer of dust upon his entrance. Boxes containing what Harry assumed were wands lined the walls, thousands of them piled at unsteady heights. Harry's eyes traced them high up to as second story of the shop, finding piles of other boxes above - all of them tingling with magic, causing Harry to feel faint as he observed the jumbled myriad.

"Good afternoon," a soft voice said suddenly.

Harry jumped, spinning about sharply, finding before him an old man, his wide, pale eyes seeming to shimmer in the darkness of the shop as they stared piercingly at Harry.

Harry recovered, and nodded. "Good afternoon."

The man tilted his head slightly in thought, and for reasons unknown to Harry, a comparison between the man and Jean flashed through his mind. "Ah yes," the man began, "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question, but a statement of sure fact. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry, and Harry wanted to respond, he really did, but he couldn't help but wonder what sort of magical eye drops the man used to keep from blinking for so long.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it — it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Mr. Ollivander had stalked so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes – and a strange connection between the two seemed to form, Harry unable to blink or look away.

"And that's where…"

Mr. Ollivander brushed Harry's long bangs away from his forehead, touching the lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead with a slender, pallid finger.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly, sadly; the slightest visage of guilt crossing his features. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

Something jolted in Harry's mind - the man was about to lie. But lie about what? Ah... "But you did, didn't you?"

Mr. Ollivander recoiled from Harry, eying him with a calm expression that was yet akin to shock.

"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."

The elderly man gasped. "A true Seer…never in my life did I think I'd meet one…"

"But you're pretty close to one yourself, aren't you?" Harry asked confusedly.

At this Ollivander lurched forward, seizing Harry's shoulders. "Perhaps, but there is a vast difference between the two, Mr. Potter. Tell me, is it like they say? Can you hear his voice?"

"Wh-whose voice?" Harry was suddenly shaken by the man's forceful, close proximity.

"Our Lord Apollo's!"

Was that who the voice was that echoed in his head? Was it Apollo, _the god_, speaking to him? "S-sometimes, I think."

"Marvelous, simply marvelous," Mr. Ollivander muttered, slowly drawing away.

But Harry cleared his throat. "I _am_ here to buy a wand, though, sir."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Ollivander, seemingly snapping to attention. "Of course, Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Er — well, I'm right-handed," Harry replied.

"Then hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

It was then that Harry realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own, whilst Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, retrieving several boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure obediently crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry gulped quite audibly and took the wand, waving it around with no small amount of embarrassment, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try —"

Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

CRASH!

The shelves shook slightly, and Harry was quite sure he had just blown something up in the back of the store.

"Well, it's certainly not that one. Here, try this…"

Harry tried. And tried. And tried some more, beginning to feel quite defective. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for – and, of course, Mr. Ollivander wouldn't tell him. The pile of useless wands - oak and heartstrings, birch and heartstrings, willow and unicorn hair, phoenix feather and apple wood - was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair in the corner, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the more scarily gleeful he seemed to become, as though he had been presented with a brilliant challenge, a puzzle to be solved.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now — yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers – different from when he first held the Tarot cards, and yet the same; it was familiar, comfortable, and yet exciting: downright intoxicating.

He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of sparks of every colour imaginable shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls.

Mr. Ollivander smiled fully for the first time since Harry had met him, crying out , "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering absently, "Curious… curious…"

"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his blank, pallid stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother — why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…after all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great."

Harry shivered at the man's smoothly expectant, fascinated tone.

Together, the two walked over to the counter, Harry handing over the requested seven Galleons, Ollivander muttering a fond farewell. Harry was about to leave, but curiously, his gaze remained fixed on the elderly man, not able to help but asking, "You don't have many friends, do you, Mr. Ollivander?"

The man only quirked an eyebrow.

"You're quite misunderstood, aren't you?"

"I suppose I am, Mr. Potter, I suppose I am."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "So am I. Well, Mr. Ollivander, next time someone looks at you like you're crazy, just tell them that they're the crazy ones. It always makes me feel better."

Harry smiled and nodded respectfully, leaving a very perplexed Mr. Ollivander behind.

* * *

The rest of Harry's shopping trip was largely uneventful, save for the fact that he was able to garner some useful information: there was a magical form of transportation available even in muggle areas for otherwise stranded witches and wizards – the Knight Bus, a relatively cheap, efficient method of travelling. Cheered by the information and its potential usefulness, Harry made his way back to Gingotts with a smile on his face, gathering his new key from Griphook in a friendly manner and exchanging half of his remaining withdrawn funds to muggle pounds, casually suggesting that the goblin would look rather cool in a red bowtie. Griphook looked rather confused by the statement, but nodded gratefully nonetheless.

Finding his way back through the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had made it back to the street corner where the Dursley's had dropped him off by two thirty in the afternoon – it was quarter after three when the Dursleys finally showed up, their expressions darkening when they saw him. Perhaps they thought he would get lost, murdered or kidnapped? Their sour countenances, however, could not dampen Harry's cheer as he jumped into the car and smiled at all of them.

"Thanks for the ride."

He could see Vernon's face twisting furiously, turning a blotchy crimson-purple, in the mirror as the car took off. "Boy," he spat, "If I find out you've been up to any _freakish _nonsense…"

"Oh, Uncle Vernon, of course I have. I told you, I had freakish business to take care of – I'll be off to magic school soon, you see."

The car screeched to a stop, other cars veering about it to avoid a collision and honking angrily.

"WHAT!" Vernon practically screamed, whilst Petunia seemed to be having a panic attack beside him, murmuring, "No, no, no, it can't be…Lily, Lily, why are you doing this to me? Why me? Why did my sister have to be a freak?"

"Uncle Vernon, you had best get going, we're stalling traffic."

Vernon growled, slamming his foot down on the gas, yelling at Harry through the rear view mirror, "You will _not_ be going to any freaky schools full of other little freaks! I will not pay for-"

"But you won't have to," Harry interrupted stiffly, "My parents already paid. The parents who didn't die in a car crash, I might add."

Petunia gasped.

"That doesn't matter!" cried Vernon, "You will not, under any circumstances-"

At that moment, the back window of the car shattered, causing Dudley to squeal and curl up in a ball, whilst Vernon swerved the car violently, Petunia shrieking and going deathly pale. As Vernon managed to shakily straighten the car out, all eyes turned to a scowling Harry with varying degrees of fear and horror.

"It's already done. I've been invited, I accepted, and I've bought my things. I can get there on my own, and you'll be rid of me for most of the year. If that doesn't appeal to you, remember that they'll come looking for me, if you don't let me go, and they will _not_ be very happy," stated Harry lowly, darkly.

Vernon cast a quick glance at Petunia, who, even in her frozen state, managed to nod stiffly. He gulped quite audibly and nodded, fear still evident in his eyes.

Harry may have felt bad about frightening Dudley, and even Petunia, but he felt no sympathy for Vernon; for the icing on the cake, he smirked at the older man quite maliciously, saying, "I'm glad we've come to an agreement."

Vernon nodded once more, wiping the sweat from his brow as he turned back toward the road.

The rest of the drive was quite peaceful, save for Harry's repetitive belting out of 'Trampled Underfoot.' He sat back comfortably into his seat, savouring Vernon and Petunia's beet-red faces and Dudley's dumbly confused expression as he sang vivaciously, ending with a flourish and a loud, slightly off-tune cadence as they drove into the driveway of Number 4 Privet Drive.

* * *

The next day, Harry retrieved the mail once again – though Vernon made sure to ask _very_ politely – pleased to find a reply from Minerva McGonagall. Enclosed was a ticket for a train leaving from Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross station in London – apparently, it was located through a portal between platforms 9 and 10. The Deputy Headmistress also inquired as to whether Harry needed someone to take him to buy school supplies and the like – the entire tone of the letter, in fact, seemed to suggest the woman was surprised about Harry's quick acceptance of magic. Harry penned a brief reply, thanking her and saying that he had already bought everything he needed, and was eagerly awaiting the start of term.

As the summer passed, Harry spent most of his time at Jean's Hollow, reading his school books. He no longer had to rely on Dudley for excuses to leave the house, and had far less chores after the trip to London – whenever Vernon forgot himself and lost his temper with Harry or threatened him, Harry was happy to provide a demonstration of just how _talented_ he was. When Harry was alone with his books and the record player at Jean's Hollow, the guilt of frightening his relatives to get what he wanted would often creep up on him – he wasn't a _bad_ person for it, was he? His actions seemed cruel, even to him, but he didn't know what else to do, and even though Jean had warned him about using his talents for less that honourable purposes, Vernon deserved it, he told himself, pushing it to the back of his mind. If he couldn't use his magic to make his life better, then what use was it?

Meanwhile, Harry was becoming nigh unbearably excited for the start of term, and had even started to compile a list of things he wanted to do at Hogwarts:

'_-Raid the library  
-Curse someone  
-Find out how the hell I survived the Killing Curse  
-Find out more about my parents  
-Find out more about Sirius Black and Death Eaters  
-Find out the Dark Lord's real name'_

It was a humble list, sure enough, but it would grow, no doubt, once he actually got to the school, he expected. The mere thought made him jump for joy. Oh yes, Harry was very, very excited to attend Hogwarts.

By the time his birthday, July 31st rolled around, Harry decided that it was high time he tried out the Knight bus. Holding his wand out at Privet Drive early in the warm, humid morning of the thirty-first, Harry was pleasantly surprised when a tall, narrow triple-decker bus that appeared anything but aerodynamic screeched to a halt in front of the Dursley residence, a young cockney man who Harry thought had a fantastic fashion sense and went by the name Stan Shunpike greeting him. When Stan looked around at the tidy street and asked him how he got stranded in such a friendly-looking place, Harry had replied that he was stranded at home, that is, suburban hell – Stan seemed to accept the answer. The bus was driven by a rather owlish elderly man, Ernie Prang, who Harry believed was named quite appropriately, after he had (barely) reached his destination and paid his fare.

The first thing Harry did to celebrate his birthday was buy himself some ice cream for breakfast, and afterward decided to buy himself some clothes that actually fit him. He couldn't be going to magical boarding school in his cousin's hand-me-downs, after all. At first it was only a few t-shirts and some jeans (complete with a red bowtie, just in case), but then he remembered that it was his birthday, the first birthday he had ever truly celebrated at that, and spent the remainder of his muggle money on a rather smashing leather jacket which he thought made him look very much like a rock star. All in all, Harry's birthday was the best he ever had, and that afternoon he returned to Number 4 Privet Drive a very happy eleven-year-old boy.

* * *

September the first rose bright and beautiful, the crisp autumn air ushering in the start of the school term with a fresh visage of hope. Birds were twittering cheerfully, their songs melting smoothly with the smell of late summer herbs in the morning air. Harry had made sure the day before that everything he would need was packed in his Brilliant Boundless Bag, and waking up at a pleasant time of nine 'o clock, Harry dressed himself quickly in his new clothes, rushed into the kitchen and downed a piece of toast and a glass of milk, and left Number 4, completely ignored by the Dursleys.

Standing at the edge of the street and holding his polished holly wand out, watching the burgundy wood glisten in the sunlight, Harry smiled with hopeful anticipation as he sang softly into the crisp morning breeze,

"_Leaves are falling all around, It's time I was on my way.  
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay.  
But now it's time for me to go. The autumn moon lights my way..."_

The Knight bus screeched to a halt right in front of him, Stan Shunpike poking his head out and grinning at Harry. "Yeh called, 'Arry?"

Harry grinned back at him. "That's right, I'm off to school, Stan."

"Blimey! Tha' time already, is it? Be'er hop right in, then, wo' wanna be late!"

Harry strode up to the bus with a skip to his step, only looking back at Number 4 Privet Drive to shout, "See you on the dark side of the moon, suckers!"

* * *

Hogwarts next chapter! And it was indeed very fun to write.

Let me know what you think!


	5. Of Hellos and Hats

**Disclaimer:** This is a song about a girl who wrote a fan fiction and forgot to write the disclaimer and got sued and was too poor to pay the fine and went to debtors' prison for the rest of her sorry life and lived in a Dickensian hell. Not.

**AN:** Thanks so much, everyone who has reviewed, favourited, subscribed, or simply enjoyed the story. It really means a lot to me. I'd like to try and send my thanks to all of you in private messages, but as a rule, I'm absent-minded and very busy. Bad combination. So if I don't, it's just me being an idiot. The reviews are cool; new at this, so I'm loving the fact that people actually read, comment, etc (it's sort of neat to know that someone on the other side of the world is reading you work, right?), and I actually get to _read_ that you like the story (or dislike it) in a review – it's like sending me your own little story! Equivalent Exchange! Right, I'll shut up now…

* * *

**Chapter 5: Of Hellos and Hats**

Harry never thought he'd run straight into a wall. Actually, he had. He'd many times considered running straight into a wall for various reasons, but never once did he think he actually end up on the other side. The whole system seemed a little dodgy, to him, but apparently, it worked.

Shrunken trunk in his pocket and Brilliant Boundless Bag slung over his shoulder, Harry boarded the train at Platform nine and three quarters immediately, pushing through the crowd and darting far inside, finding an empty compartment and slamming the door shut, trying out one of the nifty locking charms he had found in his books. It worked. Thus, as the train filled up, Harry found himself comfortably and pleasantly alone, ignoring the occasional student who would knock on the door, asking for entrance.

Ere long, the train took off from the station. At first, Harry looked idly out the window, considering his arrival at Hogwarts. Based on what he had read, he figured that upon arrival, he and the other first years would be sorted into one of the four houses of Hogwarts, named after the Hogwarts Founders: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. The question was, how would they be sorted? Apparently, Gryffindor was the house of the brave and noble, Ravenclaw the house of the intelligent and clever, Hufflepuff the house of the loyal and hardworking, and Slytherin was the house of the ambitious and cunning. In other words, Gryffindor was for the jocks and clowns, Ravenclaw was for the nerds and geeks and artists, Hufflepuff was for the nice kids and the preps of the dedicated variety, and Slytherin was for the deviants and preps of the overachieving and/or snobbish kind. Harry really didn't know where he would fit in – he was energetic and occasionally on the rash side, and definitely bold, so he could be a Gryffindor; he was smart and rather clever, and he loved his books, so he could be a Ravenclaw; he worked hard on things that he cared about, and was very loyal to himself (and Jean, if he was alive), so perhaps he could be a Hufflepuff, though a selfish one…and he'd probably scare all the nice kids; he was also very good at getting his way, and had considered world domination as a viable career option more than once, so perhaps he'd do well in Slytherin. All in all, he reached no decisive conclusions – he supposed it didn't really matter what house he was in, in the end.

It did not take long for Harry to get bored of staring out the window, and even considered unlocking the door and letting someone else in, but decided against it in the end – in primary school, he had grown used to being left alone by the other children (out of fear of Dudley, and after rumours spread of Harry 'beating up' Piers, out of fear of him as well). But then a thought struck him: Jean had once said that he should only use the Major Arcana on special occasions. Thus, Harry had never used it before – but his first day of magic school counted as special, right?

Harry sat cross-legged on the seat of the compartment and pulled his B3 out of his pocket, shuffling around inside. After some difficulty, he managed to retrieve the set of twenty-two cards, tossing his bag on the ground. With a nervous grin, he began to shuffle the deck, closing his eyes as he remembered Jeans smooth, mesmerizing movements from their first and only meeting. He let himself relax into the feeling of the cards moving through his fingers, until he felt a sharp jolt run through his fingers, and he stopped, slowly dealing the cards into a half circle of seven, just as Jean had. Taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he turned over the first card: the Hermit, his past. That made sense – the last two years, he had kept to himself for the most part, learnt as much as he could, and even contemplated the meaning of life…which never turned out well. He nodded in acceptance of that interpretation and turned over the next one – Death, the present. The first thought that drifted to mind was that the train was about to crash – but he waited thirty seconds, and nothing happened, so he decided to take a more symbolic approach. Death symbolized change, rebirth, regeneration – and things were certainly changing. The next card, supposed to show what would influence him was the Wheel of Fortune. Destiny was his greatest influence? No, that wasn't ominous at all. Not at all. Obstacles – he overturned the next card, the one at the bottom of the half-circle, revealing the Tower; along with the Devil, one of the worst omens one could come across in the Major Arcana. At least he knew it wouldn't be his future card. Depicting a tower being destroyed by a bolt of lightning, the Tower symbolized chaos, ruin, destruction, and all around bad luck. Harry groaned as he ripped his eyes from the melodramatically intimidating image, turning to the next card he flipped over, his hope card – the Sun. Well _that_ made him sound awfully optimistic. On the other hand, most of the objects on his list of things to do at Hogwarts began with 'find,' so he supposed he would be needing a lot of enlightenment. He turned over the next card, the path card finding the Fool, causing him to grin…before his mood dampened. _Remember, _he chided himself, _That does not mean 'fool around.'_ It meant a journey – his best course of action was to journey forward, prepared to discover new things and undergo transformation. Once again, it made sense – and that left him with only one card, his future card. Biting his lip, he placed his hand over the card slowly, then turning it over in one quick motion, glaring at it expectantly. But to no avail. He squinted and adjusted his glasses – all he could see was a blur. Scowling, he glanced down at the other cards, finding them perfectly clear; which could only mean one thing…

He rose to his feet, kicking the compartment door violently, then glaring up at the ceiling, where he could have sworn he heard distant, mocking laughter.

"Damn you, Apollo! You're such a cruel bastard! Well, guess what, you tosspot, you have your fun, screw you! Just bugger off then! I don't care if I never hear from you again!"

Somehow, he got the feeling the god would be sticking around nonetheless.

* * *

Somewhere along the journey from Platform 9 ¾ , Harry must of fallen asleep, because one moment he was sitting on his seat fuming and muttering profanities at a Greek god, and the next he was blinking blearily, feeling the train come to a gradual halt.

Jumping to his feet, he peeked outside the compartment, and finding the other students fully clothed in their uniforms, he rushed over his bag, pulling out the uniform as the train stopped. Watching the train empty, Harry was only able, in the end, to messily fix his tie, and settled for simply throwing the robe over his grey jeans and black t-shirt. Who needed the stuffy uniform anyway? It was already dark out, no one would see.

Scurrying out of the train, Harry followed the deep, rough voice bellowing, "Firs' Years! Firs' Years over here!" But it was a friendly bellow, not at all like Vernon's, which made Harry smile.

Following the voice, Harry forced himself not to gawk when he found it coming from an enormous man – in fact, he was fairly sure, based on his research, that the man was at least part giant. Apparently, humans and giants could interbreed – Harry didn't want to know how.

"C'mon, over here, step in the boats! Careful now. Any more firs' years?"

Harry cast one more glance at the man before stepping into one of the least crowded boats, finding himself between a stiff bushy-haired girl with rather large front teeth and a plump, dark-haired boy who looked terribly nervous.

"No more'n four to a boat!" he heard the giant call.

"My name is Hermione Granger, who are you?"

Harry turned to the bushy haired girl, finding her staring at him with bright, eager brown eyes.

"I'm Harry," he returned, knowing better than to give out his last name.

The girl frowned slightly, but her expression immediately cleared and she gestured toward the soft-featured boy beside her. "This is Neville Longbottom. He's lost a toad. You haven't seen one by any chance, have you?"

Harry quirked an eyebrow at the introduction, then looked down into the water beneath the boat. "Perhaps it went swimming. You might be able to find him if you jumped in."

The girl, Hermione scowled at him disapprovingly, a look of horror crossing her companion's face. "You don't really think he's in there, do you? I'll never find him!" the boy, Neville cried.

Suddenly feeling guilty for his careless words, Harry attempted to smile reassuringly at the boy. "Or maybe he's waiting at the castle, or in one of the other boats. Toads don't like water as much as frogs, after all."

All traces of disappointment fell from Hermione's face, and she smiled amiably at Harry before turning back to Neville. "That's right, Neville, he'll show up eventually."

"Everyone in?" they suddenly heard the giant shout, as he seated himself in his own boat. "Right then – FORWARD!"

Smoothly, the boats departed from the dock, gliding over the black waters of the lake, shimmering with the evening starlight and the lamps that speckled the distant image of Hogwarts castle, a magnificent, stalwart fortress that managed to appear delicate and enchanting all the same, looming up against the grey-blue sky like a fantasy engendered straight out of the minds of the giddy, eager fleet of first years.

"It's beautiful…" breathed Harry as the castle came into full view, and he was able to see the details of the many towers and turrets ornamenting the stone structure.

Hermione nodded rapidly and forcefully. "I can't believe it's real, it's so amazing."

Harry turned to her amusedly. "Of course it's real. Amazing things can be real too, you know."

She scowled at him. "I didn't mean it like that," she snapped, "It was an expression, is all."

Harry smiled cheekily. "So it's not amazing?"

"I meant the first part, and you know it!"

"Er, guys?" Neville's timid voice broke in, causing Harry and Hermione to rest their intense gazes upon him, until they were interrupted.

"Heads down!" came the giant's friendly but loud voice as the boats near the front of the company reached the cliff upon which the castle stood; the group of children immediately ducked their heads as the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that veiled a wide opening in the cliff side. They drifted through a shadowy tunnel, until the boats stopped at a subterranean harbour of sorts, where they clambered out of the boats and onto a shore of little pebbles.

"Oi! I go' a toad here! Anyone missing a toad?" called the giant, holding up a rather fat toad for all to see.

Upon seeing the toad, Neville bounded up to the giant, crying out blissfully, "Trevor!" and hugging the toad tightly, thanking the giant profusely, causing him to scratch the back of his head bashfully.

"And they lived happily ever after," remarked Harry to Hermione, who seemed to be watching the scene unfold with no small amount of warmth. "I wonder if I'll be invited to the wedding."

Hermione turned to glare at him as the giant began to lead the first years forward, Neville making his way back over to them. "You're rather mean, you know, mocking him like that."

Harry looked at her, feigned sympathy in his eyes. "You're jealous, aren't you? It's alright, I'll pay more attention to you now."

Behind them, Neville giggled slightly, still clutching Trevor tightly in his arms.

Hermione glanced between them and huffed. "Boys."

"Everyone here?" the giants booming voice once again found them as he raised one of his magnificently enormous fists (which could easily kill a person, Harry mused), and rapped thrice on the castle door.

The eleven-year-olds jumped as the door was flung open, a tall, spindly witch wearing a pointed hat over her dark hair, peppered with grey, and a matching green robe. She looked over the children appraisingly, a stern expression tempered only with the slightest maternal softness on her face.

"Here's all the firs' years, Professor McGonagall," the giant said. Ah, so this was who wrote the letters. No wonder they were so polite - the woman clearly wouldn't tolerate anything less.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here." With a wave of her hand, the doors opened wider, ushering the group of students into a vast entrance hall of finely cut marble, lit by rows of glimmering torches. They follower her across the cold stone floor, a few of them glancing about at the fathomless ceiling above, as she led them into a small chamber to the right, from which they could hear the muffled voices of the older students. By this time, many of the students appeared quite nervous, fidgeting as they stood.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall with a soft Scottish lilt to her voice. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting," she finished, her eyes lingering on Neville's cloak, fastened under his left ear, on a red haired boy's nose, which was smudged with dirt, and finally on Harry, flashing when they noticed the jeans peeking out from under his robe. "I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."

Immediately after she left, a torrent of hushed whispered erupted from the student body, Harry picking out pieces of conversation (whilst half-heartedly listening to Hermione chatter about all the spells she had learnt and wondering if they might come in handy at the sorting as she fussed over his tie) including the red-haired boy's exclamation "Fred told me it was a test, he said it hurts a lot!" causing him to snort. He also heard an inquiry, "Where's Harry Potter?" causing him to stiffen slightly, which he regretted when he saw a pale, blonde haired boy headed toward him, two beefy goons behind him.

"So, you're Harry Potter, are you?" he asked pompously.

Harry ignored the gasps that Hermione and Neville gave beside him. "That's what people say."

"Well I'm my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

It took all Harry had to bite back a laugh. "You're not related to any 'Bonds' are you?"

The boy looked at him, perplexed, before sneering. "I should think not. That's a _muggle_-" he spat the word "- name, isn't it?"

Harry shrugged noncommittally. "Going to introduce me to your friends?"

Malfoy glanced at the two boys behind him, answer carelessly, "Oh, this is Crabbe, and that's Goyle. And your friends?"

"They can introduce themselves."

At that Hermione stepped forward primly, sticking out a hand. "I'm Hermione Granger."

What looked like a scathing comment began to form on Draco's lips, before Neville also stepped forward, albeit timidly, saying "N-neville Longbottom."

Draco nodded at him slightly, glancing back at Hermione before turning to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizards and witches are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." He stuck out a pale hand.

Well that sounded awfully foreboding. _Poor boy, still living in the class structure of the nineteenth century,_ Harry thought bemusedly. He glanced down at the hand, before pulling his best condescending stare over his face. "Are you presuming that you are a better judge than I as to which associations are beneficial to my well-being, Mr. Malfoy?" He tried very hard not to stumble over the awkward grammar of the sentence, noting Hermione and Neville's shocked looks.

Draco's cheeks were stained pink as he attempted to rectify his words in a dignified manner, "Oh, no, I only meant that you should be careful… and I would be happy to help you hone your cautiousness."

Harry stared at the hand a moment more before he shook it, gleefully noting the Malfoy boy's relieved countenance. "I'm glad we got past that misunderstanding Draco, but you should know, I do what I want with whom I want, and nothing you say will change that."

Before the other boy could respond, he heard a collective screech from behind him. He spun around, finding a myriad of ghostly shapes drifting through the back wall, greyish forms observing the children below as they bickered.

What appeared to be a short, fat monk was saying: "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance —"

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost — I say, what are you all doing here?"

Harry snorted.

Other than that, nobody answered, all of the first years glancing at each other nervously.

"New students!" the fat ghost answered for them, smiling cheerily at them. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?"

A few people nodded mutely.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" he said. "My old house, you know."

Suddenly, a sharp voice interrupted the spectacle. "Move along now. The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." It was Professor McGonagall. As the ghosts drifted off, she continued, "Now form a line and follow me." The woman led the first years through a doorway, ignoring their gasps as they continued forward.

The Great Hall was truly a sight to behold – lit by thousands upon thousands of candles floating high above the four tables where sat the older students, in front of glittering gold plates, goblets, and cutlery. At the far end of the hall, upon a slight dais, was a fifth table where were seated the teachers. Above, the ceiling of the Great Hall was formed like the nights sky, the occasional burst of magic jolting through it with a fiery glimmer.

Hermione leaned over and whispered to him, "Its bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History."_

Harry nodded absently, looking up at the ceiling as a brief fiery burst lit it, suddenly grinning and singing softly,

"_Smoke on the water, and fire in the sky…"_

A few students, who Harry assumed were muggleborn, chuckled softly before Professor McGonagall glared back at them.

Once they were all gathered at the front of the hall, the professor silently placed a small four-legged stool in front of the students, on top of it a patched, frayed hat. It looked terribly old, and possibly dirty and lice-infested, Harry thought. Suddenly, the hall quieted, their eyes fixed on the hat, causing the first years to watch it intently now, none of them at all prepared for it to open its mouth and sing,

"_Oh you may not think I'm pretty,  
But don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me._

"_You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all._

"_There's nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be._

_"You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;_

"_You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;_

"_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you've a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;_

"_Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folks use any means  
To achieve their ends._

"_So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

"Oh my god it's a singing hat," Harry groused as the entire hall burst into an applause, the hat bowing to each of the tables, "What's it talking about, 'don't be afraid?' We have to _wear_ it, a bloody singing hat! I wonder if anyone's ever died of embarrassment…"

Hermione elbowed him sharply, before turning to glare at the red-haired boy who had just exclaimed, "So we've just got to try on the hat! I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll." Harry was starting to like this Fred person.

Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall stepped forward, unrolling a long piece of parchment. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she declared, pausing a moment. "Abbot, Hannah!"

A girl with blonde pigtails stumbled up to the hat, placing it on her head, the hat nearly swallowing her whole face. There was only a moment's pause before –

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The table at which were seated the group of students with yellow ties cheered and clapped as Hannah rushed over and sat down.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" it declared once again.

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left clapped this time, and several of the students with blue ties stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.

A girl named "Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenclaw as well, and the next girl "Brown, Lavender" was declared,

"GRYFFINDOR!" causing the table farthest to the left to explode with loud cheers.

One "Bulstrode, Millicent" went to "SLYTHERIN!" and soon after "Finch-Fletchley, Justin" was declared a Hufflepuff, Gryffindor "Finnigan, Seamus" following.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Harry felt Hermione stiffen beside him, but urged her forward, and she ran forward, eagerly stuffing the hat over her head.

"GRIFFINDOR!" it shouted a few minutes later.

Harry heard the red-haired boy groan and glared at him, before smiling at Hermione.

Neville was called up soon after, the poor boy looking quite ready to faint before Harry patted him firmly on the back. He stumbled up the stairs and clumsily put the hat on. Neville's sorting was the longest yet, as it took a few moments longer than Hermione's to decide, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Poor Neville nearly ran to the Gryffindor table with the hat on.

The next sorting Harry paid mind to was of one "Malfoy, Draco." The hat had barely touched his head before it called, "SLYTHERIN!" Harry snorted, smirking when he noticed Malfoy, who had obviously heard him, glaring slightly at him.

A Moon, a Nott, a Parkinson, two twin Patils, and a Perks followed, Harry bouncing slightly as he waited for his turn. Finally, Professor McGonagall called out his name, "Potter, Harry!"

Harry tried very hard not to slump his shoulders when, as he made his way to the stool, he heard the ocean of whispers behind him:

"_Harry Potter?_"

"Did she really just say Harry Potter?"

"Is it _the_ Harry Potter?"

"No way!"

"Look, it's him!"

The student body of Hogwarts was saved from Harry's death glare when the hat fell over his eyes.

"My, oh my, what to do with this one…."

Harry jumped when he heard the voice inside his head, just about ready to throw the hat off and dart.

"Oh, dear! Calm down, Mr. Potter, it's just me, the sorting hat."

Harry ground his teeth, hissing in his mind, "How the hell did you get in my head?"

"Why, Mr. Potter, how else do you think I sort students? I was made to do this."

"Well then get out! Now!"

"I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Potter, not until I've sorted you."

"Well then hurry up and get on with it."

"First, you have to let me."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"You have some powerful shields around your mind, Mr. Potter, almost as though…someone is guarding it for you. No, you will have to give me permission to see into your memories and your heart."

"My memories?" Harry thought to the hat, slightly panicked, "No, no way, they're mine!"

The hat sighed inside Harry's head. "If you want to be sorted, Mr. Potter, you will have to let me in."

"Why would I let you into my head, you're a bloody hat! How do you see memories anyway? Why would you expect me to trust you? You could tell anyone what you see! And don't swear on your honour, 'cause it doesn't matter, you're a hat! Like hell I'm going to let a hat in on all my secrets! A bloody talking hat at that! What if you decide to gossip with all the other talking hats? What then?"

"I cannot speak of what I see in your mind, Mr. Potter – your thoughts remain between you and I only, no one else can access them. As for how I get in your head, it is the same ancient magic that forbids me from telling anyone of what I find. It is perfectly safe, I assure you – I've been doing it for centuries. I cannot sort you without seeing your mind, and if you are not sorted, you cannot attend Hogwarts."

"How about we make a deal – forget the mind reading, sort me in the house with the least students, and I won't incinerate you?" Harry suggested feebly.

The hat chuckled nervously. "You are not the first student to threaten me Mr. Potter, I'm afraid it will get you nowhere."

"If you mess up something in my head, or tell anyone what you see, I'll forego the incinerating, and turn you into jerky, and feed you to a troll."

"Agreed."

Harry sighed shakily. "Fine. You have permission. Do your worst."

The hat chuckled, and then fell silent for a few moments, before it gasped, "Oh, oh my. A Seer, a true Seer at that. I haven't sorted one of your for many, many years."

Harry groaned impatiently. "…and?"

The hat chuckled again. "Now, now, Mr. Potter, patience is a virtue. Now let me see, where should you go? I could put you anywhere, really. Gryffindor – you're certainly brash enough, and oh…you're looking for adventure, aren't you? Quite the fearless one; in fact, you quite despise fear, don't you? Or Slytherin…my, my, Mr. Potter, you can be quite manipulative at times, can't you? And ambition, all that ambition, you crave power, you like it, don't you? And knowledge as well, you would love Ravenclaw – you're as clever as anything. And you're willing to work for it – a hard worker, determined, like a Hufflepuff, and you've already started forming bonds of loyalty. But where to put you?" The hat paused. "You'd probably murder all the Gryffindors in a week wouldn't you?"

"Not Hermione and Neville. Or that Fred guy."

The hat laughed. "And Slytherin, you'd do well, but you do not like to keep up pretences for too long; you are cunning, but you don't always enjoy it. And you speak your mind, which would not go over too well. Ravenclaw – they'd find you quite annoying sometimes, wouldn't they?"

Harry scowled mentally.

"And the Hufflepuffs, the poor Hufflepuffs, you'd scar them all for life. My, oh my, I haven't had a challenge like this in _years_."

"Well, how're you going to decide then? I don't have all evening, you know."

"Yes, yes," sighed the hat, "The trick is, Mr. Potter, I have to figure out your deepest desire, what matters most – what do you want most, Mr. Potter, where would you like to go?"

"I don't care, just put me _somewhere._"

The hat huffed. "Then what is it you want to achieve at Hogwarts? What is your endgame, Mr. Potter?"

Harry frowned – what _did_ he want? He had money, he was famous, he was already making friends, he was away from the Dursleys for the year, and he had a whole new world before him. What did he need? What did he want? Who _was_ he? And who did he want to be? He had no idea - and that in itself was far more disconcerting that he would have liked. "I…I don't know," he whispered brokenly, before the pieces began to merge together once again, and his voice gained strength, "I don't know, but," he took a deep breath, "I want to. I want to find out."

Harry felt the hat smile. "That will be a difficult task, Mr. Potter, and if I may offer some advice - you value truth and fearlessness far above all else...be careful, Mr. Potter, that you do not sacrifice too much for them."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Sure. Are you going to sort me, or what?"

"Of course…well, in that case, it better be:

"RAVENCLAW!"

* * *

Wow...another chapter - I don't think I've ever written anything so quickly in my life. Thoughts?


	6. Of Classes and Conundrums

**Disclaimer:** Take a wild guess.

**AN:** 1. Ok, so normally, I HATE flashbacks – hate reading them, hate writing them, but that was really the only way I could get the timing to work…  
2. I have no idea what a first year Ravenclaw timetable looks like, and even though with enough research and going over the books it _might_ be possible to figure it out, there's no way I'm going to do that much work (save the research for essays, eh?)…so I'll be making a schedule and pairing the Ravenclaws with other houses as I see fit to further the plot.  
3. There's a Greek word in this chapter – it is meant to be ancient Greek, but I am not very familiar with the language, so... yeah, I wish I could have used Latin, which I know, but it wouldn't have worked. Oh, and there's French too – I'm awful at French.  
4. Oh, and thanks, once again, everybody, for reading my story; I'm feeling inspired, and Harry is happy with me. To be honest, I was going to wait a couple of days to post again – I mean, posting every day is a little obsessive (it's not like I'm even spending that much time writing, the story's just sort of writing itself). Couldn't stand to, so here you go.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Of Classes and Conundrums**

One, two, three, four times, the bird tapped on the window. Squinting as the earliest hints of the scarlet light of dawn crept through the royal blue curtains of Ravenclaw Tower, Harry finally relented, walking up to the window and shooing the annoying creature away. Sure, the Ravenclaw mascot was a bird, but that didn't mean he had to like the bloody beasts. Glancing out the window, he saw the Black Lake flickering with the early morning sunlight, the sun only barely peaking over the eastern horizon and painting the stony castle walls gold and crimson. Groaning, Harry stumbled back into his four poster bed, throwing the blue curtains shut, and snuggling back into the lusciously comfortable quilt and pillows, idly recalling the eventful night before:

_(Flashback starts…now!)_

At first, only a stunned silence followed as Professor McGonagall lifted the hat off of Harry's head – but as he rose to his feet and began to make his way over to the Ravenclaw table, a thunderous applause broke forth therefrom, causing Harry to grin ever so slightly as he sat down beside one of the boys who had been sorted into Ravenclaw only a few minutes earlier.

The sandy-haired boy smiled at him, holding out his hand. "Terry Boot."

Harry smiled back, taking the offered hand, "Harry Potter, at your service."

Another dark-haired boy across from them also nodded toward Harry, not bothering to smile. "Michael Corner."

"Don't mind him," Terry said, "He hasn't smiled since he got seated."

Harry smirked. "Maybe he's waiting until a girl gets sorted?"

Michael glared at him, though the glare held no real heat, whilst three cries of outrage broke out from further down the table. Harry blinked, noticing who he remembered to be Padma Patil, Sue Li, and Mandy Brocklehurst all looking rather put out. "Oh, right, there's already been three. Sorry ladies, you have my humblest apologies."

Padma and Mandy blushed profusely, while Sue just sniffed and turned her attention back to the sorting.

"And don't forget Anthony, over here," Terry added.

"Oi! I'm not a bloody girl!" a voice from beside Terry complained, and Harry looked over to the round-faced, blonde haired boy.

"And Entwhistle's the one beside Michael, and the one beside him's Cornfoot," Terry continued.

Harry recognized Entwhistle as "Entwhistle, Kevin," one of the students who had chuckled at his Deep Purple analogy.

At that moment a blur of dark hair and robes plopped itself between Michael and Kevin, the face of a petite, but lively girl darting between the other occupants of the table. "I'm Lisa Turpin, I was just sorted into Ravenclaw too."

"You don't say," Harry muttered, as Terry outright laughed and the scowl Michael was directing at the girl turned into a smirk.

"And you're Harry Potter!" she exclaimed. "I think it's wonderful that you were sorted into Ravenclaw."

Harry blanched. "Er…thanks."

The girl smiled widely at him, and Terry grinned between the two. "Aw…it's love at first sight!"

Harry scowled, but then glanced at the front of the Great Hall as "Zabini, Blaise," traipsed down to the Slytherin table.

At that moment, Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet, shimmering purple and gold robe billowing out as he opened his arms, beaming brilliantly at the student from behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Welcome," he announced in a happy, warm voice. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!" He clapped his hands, causing a scrumptious-looking feast to materialize on the long tables.

Michael and Kevin were staring at the headmaster incredulously, whilst Lisa between them beamed back at him, seemingly star struck. Terry had burst into a fit of giggles, elbowing Anthony beside him, who simply stared back at Terry disapprovingly.

"Well that was…fascinating," Harry commented.

"Fascinating indeed," said Michael dryly.

"I wonder," Harry mused as he placed a small portion of carrots and chicken on his plate, "He's a little mad, isn't he?"

An older boy slightly down the table answered, "Perhaps, but he's amazing, one of the most powerful wizards in the world, they say!" exclaimed the boy, before adding, "Robert Hilliard, prefect."

Harry nodded. "Harry Potter. Not a prefect."

Terry rolled his eyes beside him. "He already knows that, the Harry Potter part."

Michael snorted. "Everyone does."

Harry sighed. "It's really quite disconcerting, you know."

Anthony leaned over to fetch some rolls for himself, glancing at Harry's plate. "Is that all you're going to eat, Harry?"

"I'm saving room for desert." He glanced around at his fellow first years. "Say, I've been meaning to ask someone, what's the Dark Lord's real name?"

The mouths of all the students in close proximity to Harry snapped shut.

"You mean, you don't know? You defeated him!" Lisa protested.

Harry scowled. "Not like I remember it. And besides, he hardly introduced himself beforehand. So, name?"

Terry leaned in close. "His name was…" his voice dropped to a near-silent whisper, "Voldemort."

"Voldemort?" Harry repeated, watching with amusement as all the students who heard him flinched. "As in vol de la mort? Flight of death?"

Terry blinked. "What's that?"

"Vol de la mort, like Voldemort, it's French for flight of death. The question is though, whether death flees from him, or he flees from death."

The other first years, along with Robert the prefect and another boy beside him were gaping at him with varying degrees of incredulity.

"But that wasn't what I was asking, you know. I wanted to know his real name. It's not like his mother gave birth to him and said, 'hey there little tyke, you're so cute, I think I'll call you Voldemort.'"

Michael and Terry snorted, but Stephen Cornfoot spoke up thoughtfully, "I'd never thought of it like that…" Several others nodded in agreement.

Harry sighed. "So no one knows his real name?" A collective shaking of heads. "Right then, splendid, more research for me."

_(Flashback ends…now!)_

Harry recalled that the rest of the feast had passed quite quietly, enjoying greatly the memory of stuffing himself to the brim with sweets he had never even heard of before. After the feast (and the Headmaster's warning to stay away from the third floor corridor, which apparently guaranteed a painful death), the students were escorted to their respective common rooms by the prefects of their houses. The Ravenclaw common room was high up in a tall, narrow tower, all the way up a long winding staircase, the sides of which were peppered with paintings (of dead people, apparently). A portrait was laid over the entrance, and it would only open if you answered whatever riddle it gave correctly. The prefects, once in the common room, had gone over a list of rules with the already sleepy first years, which Harry couldn't be bothered to remember. They were then pointed toward their respective dormitories, but while Michael, Terry, Anthony, Stephen, and Kevin raced up to their room, Harry stayed behind, approaching one of the prefects, a curly haired Penelope Clearwater, about a spell to make sure no one could hear what was being said in close proximity to it. When asked why he would need something like that, he made an excuse about nightmares. The kindly girl accepted that, and suggested a charm called _muffliato_, but said that it was quite difficult, and certainly not first year material. She showed him the wand movements nonetheless, saying that if any first year could learn it, it would be a Ravenclaw. Harry had shrugged and thanked her, heading up to the dormitory, finding the other boys already in bed. Harry had waited until he was sure they were already asleep before he changed into his night clothes, attempting the charm (he didn't think it had worked completely, but it _sort of_ did) and retrieved the envelope from his pocket.

_(Flashback begins…now!)_

"Engorgio!" Harry pointed his wand at the tiny box he had dumped out of the envelope containing Jeans letter, and sure enough, it grew, right before his eyes, into a full sized trunk. Slightly worn around the edges, but still clearly carven with intricate, abstract patterns, the trunk was bound by heavy, iron fasteners and braces. Harry tried to open it, but to no avail, and suddenly recalled what the letter had said about a password.

"Open sesame?" he tried feebly. No such luck. "Er…Jean? Jean Alliette? Alliette? Led Zeppelin? Robert Plant? John Bonham? Jimmy Page? John Paul Jones? Python? Pythia? Apollo? Thoth?" Harry sighed, scowling at the trunk. Those were all the obvious ones. "Brat?" He tried the trunk again – still locked.

What would Jean have set the password as? Harry was supposed to guess it on his own, so it must have been some piece of knowledge that both he and Jean shared – but they had only known each other for less than an hour. It was sort of ironic, Harry mused, that the person he had come to care for most was the one he'd known for the shortest time. He ran over their meeting in his head trying to pick out words that stuck out. They really hadn't talked about much outside of magic and divination. Thoughtfully, he tried all the names of the Major Arcana, but to no avail; the trunk remained locked.

But then it hit him – what had Harry and Jean shared that no one else did? Parseltongue! Harry's eyes lit up, and slowly, careful to pronounce slowly and smoothly, he tried, _:Open?:_

Sure enough, the locks on the trunk whirred and clicked, and Harry eagerly flung the lid open, eyes immediately coming to rest on the Led Zeppelin t-shirt laid over the top, smaller and cleaner than he remembered. Harry picked it up slowly, carefully, but then embraced it, burying his face in it. Jean's favourite t-shirt – images flooded Harry's mind of Jean wearing it everywhere, while he squatted in old abandoned buildings, performed divinations, flirted with girls, and ran from whatever local authorities he managed to piss off – it still smelt like him, faint industrial smoke, tobacco, cannabis, and various other dubious herbs.

"Well it's about time!"

Harry started at the voice, stiffening at its familiarity, and peering into the trunk. There, atop a pile of records, sat a small painting, barely the size of the palm of his hand, set in a frame that looked like it was made of scrap metal (complete with half-melted gears, springs, nuts, and bolts). The painting looked new, bright – but what caught Harry's eye was that fact that it bore the image of a scowling Jean Alliette.

"I've been waiting _forever_. And let me tell you, brat, sitting in a trunk for years, not fun."

Harry gaped, staring at the ranting painting in shock.

"Oh come on, close your mouth before wrackspurts fly in, you look like an idiot now. Don't make me regret making you my heir."

Harry snapped out of his daze, and, with trepidation, picked up the painting. "J-Jean?"

"No, Mick Jagger. What the hell, kid? You were much sharper two years ago."

Harry scowled at the painting. "What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"Need you ask? This is the longest I've _ever _gone without smokin' something!"

Harry snorted. "You're a painting, you're not going through withdrawals."

"Easy for you to say."

Harry suddenly sobered. "So you were at Gringotts, as a painting, all this time?"

The image in the painting nodded. "Had this done right before I died. So what do you think – am I hotter before death, or after death?"

Harry's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I missed you so much…"

"Woah, woah there kid, stop right now! I've never been good with crying ladies."

Harry scowled, fiercely wiping his eyes. "I'm not a girl!"

"Then grow some balls and stop crying."

Harry sniffed, glaring. "If you don't stop being such a git, I'll toss you in the trunk and forget about you!"

The painting stiffened. "You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Damn kid, the years have hardened your heart."

Harry smiled softly, laughing. "Thanks for the t-shirt."

"Well it's not like I could just leave a treasure like that unused - it's even signed on the back. Have you seen the other stuff?"

Harry shook his head, looking back into the trunk. He pulled out a pile of records, recognizing Led Zeppelin _I-IV, Houses of the Holy, Physical Graffiti, Presence, In Through the Out Door, _and _Coda _immediately.

"All of them?" Harry affirmed, grinning.

Painting-Jean stuck his nose in the air (or rather, negative space). "Of course."

Harry reached into the trunk again, pulling out an old, decrepit text labelled, _Book of Thoth_ and another leather-bound text. He looked inside the cover, finding a title page with the original title, _Omnium Divinatio_, crossed out and another written boldly under it.

"'Jean's Guide to Awesomeness'?" Harry read, quirking an eyebrow at the painting.

"Hell yeah. A historical guide to all sorts of divination, complete with my own helpful notes and tips."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head, and proceeded to unpack _Les Propheties_ and _Orus Apollo_ by Nostradamus, along with _The Key of Solomon_ and the _Book of Enoch_.

"Isn't that from the Bible?" Harry asked incredulously.

"It's not canon." Jean grinned. "It'll be clear why once you read it. These are all direct transcripts of the originals, by the way – not the watered down copies you can find at a library."

Harry nodded and pulled out a few more journals, as well as a bag of rune tiles, one of gems, a few sets of cards, and a crystal ball. One of the journals, however, caught his eye – it was small, black, latched with a jewelled fastener; and written clearly, deeply over the cover were the letters, ΑΠΑΓΟΡΕΥΜΕΝΟΣ, and below it, just as stark, the English, FORBIDDEN.

"Well, that's ominous." He reached down toward the latch.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Harry dropped the book at Jean's sudden outburst, "Don't touch that!"

"Why?" Harry wondered, peering down suspiciously at the book. "Is it porn?"

Jean snorted. "Get your mind out of the gutter and look at the cover."

"And?"

"And," Jean drawled, "What does it say?"

"Forbidden. So?"

Jean let out an exasperated sigh. "You were sorted into Gryffindor, weren't you?"

"I'm a Ravenclaw!"

"Really? Ain't you got a bit too much spunk to fit in with the bookworms?"

Harry scowled. "The hat thought I'd kill all the Gryffindors in a week."

Jean nodded sagely. "Very true. To be honest, I was betting on Slytherin."

"But Malfoy, who's a real prat by the way, was sorted into Slytherin. Interesting bloke, but I don't think I could survive in the same dorm as him...I might go insane, or something..."

"_More _insane," Jean corrected airily.

Harry glared. "And the book?"

"Right, well...brat, you're in a world now were touching the wrong thing could get you killed – oh wait, muggles can do that too. Never mind. Anyway, it's not uncommon for curses and the like to be placed on things. When something says it's forbidden, it's probably for a reason."

Harry nodded slowly. "Is there a curse on the book, then?"

Jean only shrugged.

"Well…what's inside it?"

Jean shrugged again.

"Seriously, Jean, an ominous black book with the word 'forbidden' plastered over it in two languages, and you didn't even _try_ to find out what's inside?"

Jean full-on glared at him. "I was told the same thing about it that every heir is told:

"_The secret darkest  
Begot in lack  
Dwells deep within  
The book of black_

"_To Pythia in  
Good faith gifted,  
From Apollo's  
Bosom lifted_

"_Only for thy  
Darkest hour,  
Only when  
Thy need is dour,_

"_For thither knowledge  
Cannot be lost,  
And he who's known it  
Must pay the cost,_

"_Never forgotten,  
The black book's toll,  
For forbidden knowledge,  
Thy eternal soul."_

Harry sucked in a deep breath, his mind reeling as he attempted to fully process the meaning of the poem. So many meanings, he heard them weaving between the letters, tucked in between each line.

"Don't even try to figure a way out of it, Harry, I've tried. Hell, everyone's tried. And you know what, no one's been enough of an idiot to actually open the book."

Harry frowned. "So _no one_ knows what's inside?"

Jean looked at Harry sharply. "When a magical contract – 'cause that's what this is, you know, a damn solid contract – says that something costs your eternal soul, you run the other way. Period. No questions asked."

"But I do have questions," grumbled Harry.

"Yeah, well forget them. Your job is to guard it, makes sure no one gets their hands on it."

"Then why don't I just, I don't know, burn it or something?"

"Tell me, Harry, did you ever lose your Tarot cards?"

"Uncle Vernon incinerated them once," Harry growled.

"Yeah? You remember what happened?"

Harry grimaced at the painful memory.

"Right, so, the book's the same, it won't be going anywhere. It's yours, and only yours, for the rest of your mortal life, unless someone willfully steals it from you, which would be _very_ bad, by the way. And at the end of your life, it will be your job to find someone else to protect it."

"Like you did, by giving it to me?"

"Right."

"You're rather evil, Jean, you know that, right?"

"Not that I don't appreciate the compliment, but why would you say that?"

"Making me think you were giving me this huge gift, stupid kid I was, and then dumping all this on me in a _letter_ and as a portrait, after you died! Manipulating a little kid - that's just cruel!"

Jean laughed briefly, and then sobered. "I couldn't trust anyone else. I knew right when I met you that you were the one - and you can't let me down now. Understand?"

"Yes," Harry groaned.

"Good brat," Jean grinned, "Now off to bed."

_(Flashback ends…now!)_

To see Jean again…had been surreal – Harry could barely wrap his head around the fact that the jerk of a portrait was sitting inside the trunk beside his bed. Harry blinked blearily; all the reminiscing had lulled his mind, and he thought, maybe, just maybe, he would be able to get a few more moments' sleep…

"Oi, anyone else up?"

Harry groaned when he heard Terry's loud voice.

He heard a softer voice, which belonged to Anthony. "Harry?"

"Yeah, that's Harry! Get up Harry!"

"Shut up you dolt!" Or at least, the growl _seemed_ to form those words.

Ah, so Michael had just woken as well.

"I'll be right out," Harry grumbled, reaching for the robes he had draped over the edge of the bed and throwing them on, he emerged from behind the curtains covering his bed as he was tying his tie, seeing Terry and Anthony already dressed, Kevin as well, and Stephen blearily trying to slip his socks on. Apparently, Michael was still in bed.

"There he is!" cried Terry, "Now we can go get breakfast!"

"Finally," Kevin mumbled, "I'm starving."

"Just…wait...for me…socks…" groaned Stephen. Anthony sighed and went over to pull up his socks, glancing over at Harry.

"Do you need some help with your tie, Harry?"

Harry glanced down at the limp tie hanging over his robes, which he had given up on. It was one thing to tie a tie; it was another to tie it on a Monday morning. "Nah, I'm good."

"If you're sure."

"Right then," said Terry, "Let's get breakfast before our upperclassmen eat it all."

Harry looked over at Michael's bed. "What about him?"

Terry raised an eyebrow. "Do _you_ want to try and wake him?"

Harry grimaced. "Not really, no."

"Then come on."

The five boys traipsed down into the common room, finding only a few fellow Ravenclaws lingering on the sofas. They made their way to the portrait hole, flying down the stairs, only sobering their pace at the enraged cries of the paintings, "No running down the stairs!"

They reached the Great Hall panting for air, scurrying gleefully toward the table at the sight of breakfast. Harry almost immediately began shovelling sausages, marmalade, and fruit pudding on his plate.

"_What_ are you doing?"

Harry looked up to find Lisa Turpin glaring at his plate of…_mush_ in disgust. He shrugged. "Making breakfast."

"What _is _that?"

"I like sausages, I like marmalade, and I like fruit pudding. Much better than dry toast."

The girl shivered and went back to her breakfast.

Suddenly, Harry got the feeling that someone was standing behind him, possibly glaring at him, but he ignored it in favour of his breakfast – his marmalade-sausage pudding was _good_.

"Er, Harry," he heard Terry say, "There's an angry beaver and a chipmunk behind you."

Harry blinked, and turned around to find Hermione and Neville staring at him. "Oh, hi."

Hermione scowled. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Tell you what?"

"Your name!"

"I did tell you my name, its Harry."

"Harry _Potter_," Hermione corrected.

"Yes well, that Draco kid made that pretty clear."

"We were kind of preoccupied at the moment, but never mind that, why didn't _you_ tell us?"

Harry sighed. "Because here, Harry _Potter_ is the kid who defeated Voldemort –" everyone flinched "- but _Harry_ could be anyone. Being famous and practically worshiped is fine and dandy and all, but it's not the way to make friends."

Neville smiled at that, and beside him, Hermione blinked. "Oh, that's alright then. Here." She reached down and grabbed his tie, pursing her lips as she tied it tightly. "I'll see you later then, Harry." The two waved, and rushed back to the Gryffindor table.

"Well _that_ was rather Hufflepuff-ish," Michael drawled as he sat down at the table.

Harry scowled at him. "Shut up."

Michael glowered back. "And why did you all leave without me?"

Stephen looked over at him. "Have you heard yourself in the mornings? Like a bloody troll, your growl."

Michael's scowl deepened, as he violently stabbed one of the sausages on his plate.

* * *

Transfiguration was their first class, taught by Professor McGonagall. Immediately after the last student had filed into the classroom, she began her lecture with a stern warning. "Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned," she announced, turning the neat desk she stood behind into a pig and back again, greatly impressing the first years.

The lecture was quite complex, as Harry had expected it to be – they were learning how to transform the very nature of something, after all. Nonetheless, whilst he jotted down notes, his mind began to wander, picking up on all the possibilities for the magnificent, diverse science that was transfiguration.

When Professor McGonagall paused to ask if there were any questions, Harry's hand immediately shot up.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Is it possible to transfigure humans? Like, say I wanted to transfigure Terry into a frog."

Terry blanched, and several other students chuckled.

"Human transfiguration is possible, Mr. Potter, but is extremely complex and dangerous, and will not be covered until your NEWT year. Now, anymore…"

Harry's hand shot up again, as Terry cast him an uneasy glance.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Can you transfigure humans into inanimate objects? Ooh, or what about elements? – like, what if I was in a fight, and I wanted to transfigure Terry into a fireball, or a ball of water, and use him to drown my opponent."

Terry inched away from him, a look of horror on his face.

Professor McGonagall sighed. "A better option, Mr. Potter, would simply be the use of an _Incendio_ or _Aguamenti _charm."

"I know, but is it _possible_?"

"With extensive study, expertise, and skill in transfiguration, it _may_ be possible," Professor McGonagall said sharply, "But certainly not wise, Mr. Potter."

Harry accepted the answer as a plea not to pry further, and waited patiently as Professor McGonagall explained their assignment of turning a match into a needle.

"What is that on the end of your needle, Mr. Potter?" she asked as she looked over Harry's and Terry's transfiguration attempts.

"It's a barb, Professor, to inflict maximum damage."

McGonagall sighed exasperatedly. "Five points to Ravenclaw, Mr. Potter, for the first successful transfiguration, but in the future, follow my instructions exactly. And transfigure that into a regular needle, preferably with the end dulled before you endanger yourself or your classmates."

* * *

Defence Against the Dark Arts followed – though Harry wasn't sure that Professor Quirrel could defend against anything, let alone the Dark Arts.

The classroom was filled with the unpleasant aroma of garlic, apparently to ward off a vampire that was tracking the skittish professor. It was very hard to follow the lecture through the strong smell and the professor's incessant stuttering (and, for Harry, the biting headache that wouldn't seem to leave him alone, sharpening in his scar every time Quirrel turned around), but the students managed to glean that they would be learning how to defend against offensive spells, like certain charms, jinxes, hexes, and curses, as well as against dark creatures. Half way through the class, Michael had spoken up and asked Professor Quirrel,

"What about offence? Will we be learning any curses?"

The professor went deathly white, and began to stutter incoherently.

"Oh!" Harry exclaimed, suddenly inspired, "What about creating our own curses?"

Both Michael and Kevin, and even Padma looked quite interested at that.

"Like the other night," Harry continued, "I was wondering if there was a curse that untangled a person's intestines inside their body, and then braided them. The person's insides would blow up then, wouldn't they?"

Professor Quirrel promptly fainted, and the first years (most looking a little green) got out of class early.

* * *

Lunch was a mostly eventless affair after which the ten first year Ravenclaws made their way to Herbology, which was held outside in a greenhouse.

Harry found the class reasonably enjoyable, as he had some experience with plants, and despite the fact that it was an item on his chore list, enjoyed gardening. The kindly, plump Professor Sprout had begun the class by warning the First Years to stay away from the other greenhouses, as some of them housed several plants which, though she euphemized the expression quite a bit, were, in short, man-eating.

Michael, however, seemed to pick up on the euphemism, and asked skeptically, "How would a _plant_ manage to devour a human, a wizard at that?"

Before the professor could respond, Harry piped up in return. "That's easy. Even certain species of_ muggle _plants can devour insects. I would imagine a much larger magical plant would similarly devour a human – using naturally secreted corrosive acids, the plant would first trap its prey, then melt the flesh, all the way down to the bone, digesting the dissolving nutrients. By the time the bones begin to bubble and ooze, the internal organs would rupture…" His rant was silenced when Professor Sprout slapped a hand over his mouth.

Mandy Brocklehurst promptly emptied her stomach of her lunch.

Ah, yes, Harry was making _quite_ the impression at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

And that's that. If you cracked a smile, review.


	7. Of Potions and Prats

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter, I wouldn't be so poor.

**AN:** My dear readers, I must say, reading your reviews has become one of the highlights of my day. On that note, thanks for the reviews for chapter 6; I thought it was rather well received – apparently it was funny or something. Who knew?

* * *

**Chapter 7: Of Potions and Prats**

Their first class Wednesday was History of Magic. At first, Harry and his classmates had been confused by the upper years' sympathizing glances of pity as they left the breakfast table, but the confusion did not last long. Professor Binns, professor of History of Magic, was a ghost – most spirits, Harry knew from his research, relied on patterns of behaviour, and Binns certainly did. For an entire hour he droned on, quite repetitively, oblivious to his students' boredom – several, including Terry, Lisa, and Stephen, slept through a great portion of the class, whilst Michael simply glared at the ghost. Only Kevin and Anthony seemed to be taking notes – and Harry, well, Harry was plotting. It was devious, sinister, and perhaps even cruel, and would land him in more trouble than he would care to be in if he was caught, but it was necessary.

"Binns must be exorcised," Harry whispered between Terry and Michael as they _finally_ walked out of the history classroom.

"I agree with you there mate. I mean really, a bloody ghost?" Terry yawned.

"No," Harry said urgently, "I mean, really. We need to find a way to exorcise Binns."

Terry gaped at him.

"History is an important subject – it educates us on political climates, conflict resolution, and on how to avoid past mistakes! I will not have my education compromised by a stupid ghost! Binns must be done away with."

"Er, Harry you're talking about murdering a teacher here."

"He's already dead."

"That's not the point!"

"It needs to be done!"

"I agree with Harry," Michael suddenly spoke up, "We're Ravenclaws – knowledge is what defines us as a house, and therefore we have a responsibility for it. Binns is not only an obstacle, but also an insult. He deserves to be exorcised."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Harry.

Terry groaned. "Anthony would kill me if he knew we were even discussing this."

"Your girlfriend doesn't need to know," said Michael.

Terry scowled. "He's more like my little sister."

"Just keep telling yourself that."

"Damn you, Michael, I-"

Suddenly, Harry grabbed both of their arms, dragging them down a dark passageway.

"Harry! What the – "

"Is it agreed then? We'll work together to find a way to exorcise Binns?"

Michael nodded determinedly. Both he and Harry looked toward Terry.

"Oh, oh no, you're _not _dragging me into this."

They glared.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble we could get into? We could be expelled!"

"We'll just have to be discrete, then," said Michael airily.

"Discrete! How do you discretely murder a teacher?"

"Exorcise." Michael corrected.

"Subtly," Harry said, "You do it subtly."

"You can't subtly murder someone!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "If anyone can do it, I can."

Michael nodded. "Come on, Terry, we've known each other forever - best friends trust best friends; trust me on this! It's important!"

"I don't know…"

Harry sighed. "If you don't agree, we'll just have to make sure you stay silent about it. I read about this one charm, _Obliviate_, it alters memories…"

Terry stiffened and backed away. "You're _not_ touching my memories, even if you are Harry bloody Potter."

The other two boys stared at him expectantly.

Terry sighed. "Fine, fine, I'm in. I'll help you exorcise Binns."

"Good to have you on board," said Harry, grinning, "Now, place your right hands on your hearts."

The two boys nodded and did so.

"Now, Terry Boot, Michael Corner, do you so swear to aid this Harry James Potter in the exorcism of Professor Binns of History of Magic, for the purpose of saving our magical education?"

"I so swear."

"I so swear."

Harry nodded, "Then we are now the Brotherhood of Binns Exorcists."

Terry blinked. "We are?"

"Of course we are. We are now bound together by secrecy and a common goal – we're a brotherhood, with the purpose of exorcising Binns."

Terry nodded slowly. "Well that's sort of awesome, I guess."

"Now let's go, before we're late for charms!"

* * *

The boys barely made it into the charms class room before class started, ignoring the disapproving glares sent their way by Padma and Anthony.

Charms class was good fun, Harry found; it was a versatile subject, and Professor Flitwick, their head of house, was a cheery man (er, half goblin), enthusiastic about what he taught. His diminutive stature did not at all subtract from the amount of knowledge and magical power that the man had at his disposal, Harry realised. Unlike McGonagall, who had been disapproving, and Quirrel, who had fainted, Professor Flitwick seemed quite pleased by Harry's curious inquiries, even his more…inventive ones. He also seemed quite interested with Harry's mention of Jean's charmed record player.

By the end of class, though they had not learnt any charms and would apparently be concentrating on charm theory for the next few weeks, Charms had easily become Harry's favourite class. As the students filed out, off to the Great Hall for lunch, Harry turned to Michael and Terry.

"I need to ask the professor something, and I don't think I'll make it to lunch. Meet you at Potions?"

They nodded. "Right, mate, see you."

Harry walked up to Professor Flitwick's desk, "Excuse me?"

"Oh, Mr. Potter! Is there something I can help you with?"

Harry nodded. "You see, professor, I was just remembering today how Mr. Ollivander told me that my mother's wand was well-suited for charms."

"Ah, yes," said the professor, smiling fondly, "Lily Evans was one of my most talented students – a genius at charms, one might even say. In her later years, especially when she had taken some Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, she showed a unique sort of brilliance, even starting some spell-crafting on her own. I was pushing her to continue on to her Mastery in Charms when she graduated, but with the war…" He shook his head sadly. "One of the brightest witches I have ever had the honour to meet – I would have liked her to take my position here, one day…"

For some reason, Harry had to blink back tears – he never knew the woman. He didn't even know what his mother looked like, what her voice sounded like – but then why did hearing about her make his heart twist within his chest? "And my father?"

"Ah, James, the liveliest Gryffindor of them all. More talented at transfiguration, as I understand. You should really talk to Professor McGonagall, as she was their head of house. I'm sure she could tell you many a tale."

Harry nodded. "Thank you professor. But I didn't want to only ask you about my parents."

"Oh?"

"People keep telling me I survived the Killing Curse."

Professor Flitwick nodded, seemingly understanding Harry's intended question. "And you want to know how."

"I did some research, last night, in the library. The basic definition of the Killing Curse is that it forcibly separates the soul from the body. How could a _baby_ survive that?"

Professor Flitwick shook his head. "That is the thing, Mr. Potter – it should be impossible to block such a powerful curse that has such a single-minded objective."

"But then I got to thinking, why isn't there a counter-spell? I mean, theoretically, if there is a branch of magic that can separate a soul from a body, it should be able to bind a soul to a body, or re-attach it too."

"There are no such spells, Mr. Potter."

"But what if someone created one? What if my mother, who was a genius at charms, managed to create a spell that kept a soul attached to a body? What if-"

Professor Flitwick held up his hand. "Mr. Potter, how much magic would one need to know to kill a person?"

Harry was silent for a moment. "Not very much. Most children could produce accidental magic with potentially fatal effects, right?"

The professor nodded. "But it takes many years of study as a healer to be able to properly repair a body that has been dropped ten metres using a simple levitating charm. You see Mr. Potter, it is easy to break something, but it is much harder to put something back together. Very, very little is known about the soul, even among wizards – though a spell that forcefully, crudely rips the soul from the body has been created, it would take much, much more insight to be able to put them back together. And generally, Mr. Potter, magics concerning the soul are considered forbidden."

Harry sighed. _That_ word again. "So, it's a mystery, even to you?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Potter. I am sorry I could not be of more help. Sometimes, things happen that nobody can understand – it takes an intelligent man to realize this, and a wise man to accept it."

Harry nodded, smiling. "Thank you, professor."

"Not at all, Mr. Potter, nothing pleases me more than answering the questions of my students."

Harry left the charms classroom deep in thought, and though he had a bit of time before Potions, he resolved to go back to the library, instead of the Great Hall. Rather than going back to the depressing and daunting task of researching the Killing Curse, Harry decided some lighter reading was in order, and retrieved some Hogwarts yearbooks from the shelves. He picked a few from the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s – it was his estimation that Voldemort must have gone to school sometime during those three decades. While he knew that it was not as though he would be able to tell from a picture who the dark lord was, and that three decades was a wide area to search, he presumed that it would be possible to find at least a few clues from the yearbooks.

"Potter?"

Harry looked up from the 1952 yearbook, seeing Draco Malfoy walking up behind him. "Malfoy."

"You're not at lunch?"

Harry shook his head. "I had stayed behind at charms to ask Professor Flitwick something, and decided to just wait here until Potions."

"Potions?" Draco asked, perking up slightly.

"With the Hufflepuffs. We've got a class today and Friday with them."

Draco scowled. "Good luck with that. Professor Snape doesn't put up with idiots, and those Hufflepuffs are a load of duffers."

"I'm sure they're not all bad. But I've heard a great deal about the potions professor – I've heard he's everything and anything between a Death Eater and a vampire."

Draco's face whitened briefly, but Harry didn't miss it. "What are you doing now, then? It's too early to be assigned any essays." He frowned at the book in Harry's hands. "A yearbook from 1952?"

Harry sighed. "I'm trying to figure out Voldemort's –" Draco flinched, especially violently, "- real name. You wouldn't happen to know, would you?"

Draco shook his head urgently, still seeming quite flustered.

"I didn't think so, nobody seemed to know. I even asked Madame Pince, the librarian last night, because librarians always know all sorts of strange things, you know, and she just paled and shooed me away."

Draco seemed to have recovered. "Why would you want to know that, anyway?"

Harry shrugged. "He tried to kill me, I killed him, apparently. He knew my name, why shouldn't I know his?"

Draco frowned, apparently confused by the strange reasoning. "Right."

Harry stood. "Well, I better start making my way down to the dungeons. See you around, Malfoy."

He nodded. "And I need find Crabbe and Goyle, make sure they don't get lost on their way to Transfiguration."

Harry snorted. "Say Malfoy, remember what you said before the sorting feast, about associating with the wrong sorts?"

Draco straightened. "Of course."

"Right, well, I figured if you were offering such advice, you must know the student body pretty well."

Draco smirked and puffed out his chest.

"I've been meaning to curse someone, you see, and I need a good candidate."

Draco blinked.

"It would have to be someone deserving, a major prat, a bully or something – someone not too smart (wouldn't do to have someone real clever after me), and someone who is noticeable, a good, clear target. And it can't be another Ravenclaw."

"Er…" Draco began unsurely, before pulling himself together, a calculating look coming over his face. "Marcus Flint. Slytherin sixth year. Apparently, he often bullies the lower years, but gets away with it because he's on the Quidditch team. He was rather rude to me, last night."

Harry smiled. "Thanks, Malfoy. It's been lovely doing business with you."

From there, Harry made his way down toward the dungeons where the Potions classroom was, finding the door open. He rushed in, finding a seat beside Padma Patil, who blushed as he sat down.

A moment later, Professor Snape burst into the room, slamming the door and causing most of the students to jump a foot in the air. He strode purposefully to the front of the room, dark robe billowing behind him. Immediately, Professor Snape began by calling roll, his silky yet firm baritone drifting over the dark, cold classroom.

_It's no wonder they all think he's a vampire. This place is creepy!_ thought Harry, _I wonder why he…_

"Ah, Yes," said the soft voice, suddenly, "Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity."

Harry met the man's gaze coolly, holding it until he turned away.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but his words were clear, biting – the Hufflepuffs looked terrified, while the Ravenclaws appeared to be completely drawn in.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

The students were silent, barely daring to breath as Professor Snape paused.

"Potter!" he exclaimed suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry panicked for a moment. He didn't know the answer to that – he had read the potions textbook inside and out and there wasn't a single formula that…

_-Draught of the Living Death_- said an amused voice inside his head.

Harry stiffened. But wasn't that…? Apollo? But why would Apollo be helping him? In _Potions class_, of all places?

"Well, Potter? I'm waiting. If you do not know the answer…"

"Draught of the Living Death…sir."

Professor Snape sneered. "Clearly luck follows you around, Potter."

Harry was hard pressed to keep from bursting out in laughter. _If only you knew…_

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

That's easy. "An apothecary, sir." He watched Padma's dark face pale a few shades beside him, and quickly amended, "Or, the stomach of a goat, if the apothecary ran out."

Professor Snape looked as though he had swallowed something especially sour. "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

_What is this, twenty questions? Is he trying to stump me?_ Suddenly, something in Harry's mind jolted – as Professor Snape had interrogated him, he had felt a growing pressure in his mind – but now, he felt a sharp prod on the shields he had lifted for the Sorting Hat. He pushed back. _If you don't get out now, I'll make sure you never get out,_ he shoved the threat to the front of his mind. It was a bluff, of course, but it seemed to work, as the presence retreated. Harry glanced around the classroom, finding all eyes on him. Oh, right, the question. "Only the fact that you are trying to trick me, sir. But both share the scientific name aconite." Harry knew _that_ because Indian Aconite was the most poisonous plant in the world, according to some sources.

Professor's Snape's face went an angry crimson, before he turned around and began lecturing.

The class was interesting, Harry had to admit – the man knew what he was talking about, and expected a great deal of his students – which Harry found impressive, though a little unfair. However, unlike Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, Professor Snape did not tolerate questions in class, and eventually, Harry asked one too many.

"That's it, Potter! Out! Now!" the man snapped, causing the entire class to stiffen, and a few students to whimper.

Harry, meanwhile, paled. He would admit, while he was curious about potions, he had not been innocent of trying to annoy the man – but he didn't mean to go that far. Who knew the _Slytherin_ Head of House would have such a foul temper? Slowly, stoically, Harry rose to his feet, but stopped, when he heard the voice in his head speak up.

_-There is only one will Severus Snape will bend to, and that is Albus Dumbledore's…-_

Harry took a deep breath, turning back to the professor, and saying in his firmest voice, "That's alright, I was planning on doing some research in the library, anyway. Or maybe…maybe I'll take up the Headmaster's offer for tea, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I was a bit early…" he bluffed musingly.

And sure enough, Professor's furious face slackened, and it took only a moment before, "Oh, for Merlin's sake, sit down, Potter," he hissed.

The rest of the class went by uneventfully, with Harry remaining quiet and Snape ignoring him. Harry and Padma silently agreed at the end of class that Harry would remain seated while Padma bottled the potion and took it to Snape.

After class had finished, Professor Snape immediately shouted, "You stay behind, Potter!"

As all the students left, Michael and Terry casting a wary but pitying glance at him, Harry remained seated at his desk. Only after the classroom was empty did Harry rise to his feet, striding up to Professor Snape's desk. The man ignored him, of course, until he cleared his throat quite loudly…twice.

"Ah, Potter." he spat, eying Harry suspiciously when he opened his mouth to speak.

"I just wanted to say, professor, that I am sorry. I was not considerate of your method of teaching, and was disruptive in class. Moreover, I overstepped my bounds and was disrespectful. You are clearly a competent Potions Master, and expect the same competency and dedication from your students – I respect that, sir, and I humbly apologize for my behaviour." He managed not to grimace or grit his teeth through the whole stiff apology - he could not help but pat himself on the back. It was all true, sort of, from the professor's point of view...he just left out the parts about the professor's obvious anger issues. Whether he was really sorry or not...well, there's got to be a difference between apologizing and actually feeling guilty, right?

One moment, two moments, three moments passed, and the professor's face remained frozen in place. At that point, Harry steeled himself and nodded respectfully, smirking as he retreated from the class, leaving a stunned Severus Snape behind.

* * *

"Mate, how are you still alive?" cried Stephen, over dinner.

Harry shrugged, noting the other first year Ravenclaws' curious glances. "I apologized."

Terry across from him burst out laughing at that. "Blimey, mate, Snape was right about that luck of yours."

"_Professor_ Snape," Padma interrupted.

"So you actually swallowed your pride and apologized?" Kevin asked skeptically.

"Well, the man's a total bastard, and a little bit evil...and I like that, so yeah."

"Evil bastards got to stick together, right?" grinned Terry.

Harry glowered at Terry, but then his expression cleared as something caught his eye. He leaned over to Robert the prefect. "Oi, Hilliard, who's that boy over there at the Slytherin table, the big one shoving Zabini?"

Robert glanced over the table, and scowled. "Oh, that's Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch captain."

Harry nodded, grinning quite nastily and causing Anthony to glare at him suspiciously. "Say, Terry, would you mind sitting up a bit straighter? Yes, like that, and lift your elbow a bit?" He pulled out his wand, hunching over in order to remain hidden, nestled among the other Ravenclaws, and whispering, _"Calvorio."_

A moment later, cries of surprise broke out from the Slytherin table, and Terry glanced over his shoulder, laughing as he saw Marcus Flint's hair rapidly falling out; in his panic, the burly boy tripped and fell into a bowl of whipped cream. The entire Great Hall burst out in laughter, Draco catching Harry's eye and smirking, receiving a wink in return.

* * *

"…and so the Slytherin table was completely divided for the rest of the evening – half was furious, trying to find the culprit, and the other half was snickering into their pumpkin juice!"

Portrait-Jean burst out laughing, and Harry thought that if he was not a portrait, he might have been in danger of suffocating to death. "And you're sure you didn't get caught?"

"Of course not, Jean, what do you think I am, a Gryffindor? No, it's me and Malfoy's dirty little secret now, and I don't think I've pissed him off yet, so he shouldn't rat on me. Except, Anthony knows, he saw me, and so did Terry, because I told him to move over. They won't tell though. I think Hilliard, that prefect, might know too, but he's a big Quidditch fan, and probably loves that Flint lost all his hair – he didn't take any points, after all."

Jean chuckled, shaking his head. "That's one more thing off your list, then?"

"I suppose, but I don't think I'll stop with Flint. There must be a ton more prats in the school, and they'll make good practice targets. I'll be like a vigilante, like Batman or something! Maybe not…that sounds like a lot of work…we'll see."

"And Malfoy? you said he's a prat too…"

"Yeah, but he's my prat. Ugh, that sounded wrong. What I mean to say is, he's my informant. I need him, so he's safe. Besides, he's been nothing but helpful, if not a bit annoying."

"Ooh, very Slytherin of you, Harry."

"Well, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. When dealing with a Slytherin, you've got to out-Slytherin them."

Jean grinned. "Like you did with Professor Snape?"

Harry groaned. "I don't know whether I'm looking forward to my next class, or dreading it. You're never going to let me live that down, will you?"

Jean laughed. "You almost got kicked out of Potions on the first day! If it wasn't for Apollo's save, you would have been. Very nice of him, that was."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Very nice. _Too_ nice. I wonder what he's up to…"

Jean rolled his eyes. "He's a _god_, Harry, he's always up to something. Now that they don't rule over us humans anymore, they just screw around with us…as much as the Fates let them, that is."

"The Fates?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. If stories are to be believed, then Clotho is the one that spins the threads of life, Lachesis is the one who measures it out and weaves it, and Atropos cuts it. Anyway, rumour has it that Apollo's done 'em all at least once."

Harry grimaced.

"They're all pretty close. Which is important to know, because the Fates are the only ones who have power over humans."

Harry looked thoughtful. "So, the Fates are like, the most powerful beings in existence?"

Jean shook his head. "Nah, I shouldn't have said that thing about the Fates being the only ones with power over humans, because it's not really true. Even the Fates have to suck up to someone, the big Kahuna, that is."

"And who is that?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Death."

Harry immediately sobered. "Death?"

Jean nodded. "The only one nobody can beat – because even though Death can kill anyone, you can't kill Death."

There was a long, still silence.

"So…"

Harry glanced down at him.

"Tell me how you cursed off all of Marcus Flint's hair again."

"Again?" Harry grinned. "Right, so…"

* * *

So...love it? Hate it? Suggestions? Corrections? Hopes and dreams? Click that little button below, and let me know!


	8. Of Feasts and Fairy Tales

**Disclaimer:** Today, class, I will be teaching you a new logical truism: I do not own what I do not own. Irrefutable, ain't it? That being said, I don't own Harry Potter or Star Wars. Or Disneyland, for that matter. Which means that I don't own Harry Potter, Starwars, or Disneyland.

**AN**: I just want you all to know, that last night I had an awful sleep (barely got any), being sick and all, but when I got up, I had 40 emails in my inbox – only two were for work, the rest were people favouriting/reviewing my story. That made me smile (actually, grin rather wickedly), which is more than the lunch sitting in front of me can say. So thanks, everyone who's read and enjoyed, you've brightened my day.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Of Feasts and Fairy Tales**

"And then, Darth Vader said to Luke Skywalker, 'I_ am_ your father.'" Harry paused, taking in the intense faces of the first and second year Ravenclaws on the couches in Ravenclaw Tower, their rapt attention trained on him, except Kevin, who was silently snickering in a corner. He cast a warning glare Kevin's way, and then picked up, "And I think that's all for today, I'll tell you the rest tomorrow."

There was a collective disappointed groan.

Lisa mock fainted. "Poor Luke, can you imagine? Having that monster as your father? It would be like finding out You-Know-Who was your dad!"

"And he was so brave, standing up to the Dark Lord like that…and he got his arm cut off!" Mandy exclaimed, her eyes full of pity.

"And it all really happened, Luke Skywalker is real?" Padma asked dreamily, Lisa and Mandy beside her swooning. Even Cho Chang looked quite smitten.

Harry nodded emphatically. "But it happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away."

"Then how do the _muggles_ know about it?" Michael asked suspiciously.

"A muggle named George Lucas found an ancient holocron from the Jedi Temple, and managed to get all the information off it before it broke down," Harry stated matter-of-factly, ignoring the sound of Kevin's head hitting the wall.

Slowly, the crowd began to disperse, the first years getting ready to head off to Charms, which was their only class of the day, seeing as the Halloween feast would be taking place soon after.

Harry had gotten into an easy schedule of going to class, doing homework, and exploring the library over the last two months. Classes had gone well, so far, though every day was a struggle to remain on his teachers' good sides. It was his personal belief that McGonagall was secretly amused with him, but his epistemic commitment to said belief wasn't nearly strong enough to actually act on it. Professor Flitwick certainly was amused by him, and the man/goblin always seemed eager to answer Harry's questions and consider his ideas – no matter how outlandish they were. Professor Sinistra, who taught astronomy, was often impressed with his knowledge of the stars (all that research during his boring primary school years came in handy), and though Professor Sprout was indeed very sweet, she seemed to consider Harry something akin to an out of control child – which, of course, he was, but he was also so much more. Professor Quirrell seemed to have developed a pathological fear of him. Professor Snape…he was ignoring Harry. Apparently the snarky Potions Master didn't know what to make of him – which Harry had been aiming for. Truth be told, after hearing horror stories of Gryffindor Double Potions with the Slytherins from Hermione, Harry was alright with this. The professor would warm up to him eventually. Maybe.

His time in the library, however, was what Harry always looked forward to most. He, Michael, and Terry had Brotherhood of Binns Exorcists, or BoBE research sessions at least once a week, but were getting nowhere – most books only mentioned exorcisms in passing, and Harry was beginning to suspect that there was a greater chance of useful information being found in the Restricted Section, but no one would write a group of first years a pass for the Restricted Section, even if one of them _was_ Harry Potter.

Harry had also taken to looking through the 1940 – 1960 yearbooks, jotting down any names that might have been good candidates for Voldemort's true identity. His main criteria were good grades (it wouldn't do for the most feared dark lord of all time to be an idiot, after all), being in Slytherin (it made sense, the man must have been _very_ ambitious), and being a pureblood (Harry had learnt that many of the political tensions during the war were due to a dichotomy between purebloods and muggleborns). Of course, not all three criteria needed to be fulfilled, but they were a good starting point. The fact that many of Voldemort's followers were from pureblood families led Harry to research them, and he was fascinated to find that the Blacks were considered a _dark_ pureblood family, Voldemort supporters, while the Potters, though pureblood, were not. Fascinating as all that was, however, as of Halloween, Harry had not found the answers to any of the questions he wanted answered most.

That day they had Charms with the Gryffindors, and would be learning the Hover Charm, a sort of levitating spell. Now, Harry had been levitating things since he was eight or nine – immediately, when he got to Hogwarts, he had started practicing the actual charm with his wand. He considered himself something of an expert, and looked forward to fooling around in class, using his expertise as an excuse.

"Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practicing!" squeaked Professor Flitwick, who perched on top of his pile of books as usual. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the spell properly is very important, too — never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."

Terry stared down at his feather, glaring, and then taking a deep breath. "Wingardium Leviosa!" Nothing happened. "Damn it! Why aren't you even trying, Harry?"

"Because I can already do it."

Terry wrinkled up his nose. "No way! Prove it!"

Harry glared for a moment, but then suddenly grinned. After mastering the levitating charm, Harry had begun making alterations on how he performed it – especially after he had spoken to Professor Flitwick about the Killing Curse; the professor had highlighted that part of the curse's power came from the fact that it attacked as single object in a single way. So what would happen if a relatively easy charm, like the levitating charm, was divided among several objects? Harry stood up in his seat slowly, swirling his wand pronouncedly in a quick swish and flick, saying carefully, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The feathers from all the surrounding desks rose up in the air, wobbling slightly, before they all joined in a torrent, diving down to attack Terry in the face.

Between the exhilaration from casting the spell, the excitement of getting it right, and the picture that feather-mouthed-Terry made, Harry collapsed in his chair, bursting out in uncontrollable laughter, managing a cackle that sounded suspiciously like, "Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha, I am Master of Feathers!"

Most of the students seemed positively shocked by the demonstration, while Michael was one of the few laughing at the sputtering Terry, who looked quite betrayed.

"Oh, oh well done Mr. Potter!" squealed Professor Flitwick, turning to the class, "Not only has he performed the charm, but he also controlled it and divided it among all those feathers. Excellent, excellent! Where did you get the idea to do that, Mr. Potter?"

Harry blushed. "I, er, was thinking about this one Metallica song, 'Master of Puppets,' and I thought it'd be cool to be Master of Feathers. And I, uh, practice a lot."

Terry, who had finally managed to get all the feathers out of his mouth and ears and nose, gaped at him incredulously.

"Oh, splendid, splendid," Professor Flitwick continued, "He's right, you know! Practice makes perfect! Now, get back to practice! And twenty points to Ravenclaw!"

Harry's amused green eyes avoided Terry's death glare, suggesting quietly to him, "Imagine the magic pouring out of your wand and surrounding the feather, lifting it up."

Terry's glare softened into a determined nod, as he got back to work.

Meanwhile, he could hear Hermione giving instructions to her partner, the red-haired Ronald Weasley.

"See, did you see that, Ronald? Harry pronounced it _perfectly_," she was saying.

Ron only grumbled. "Yeah, well he's Harry _Potter_, he can do anything. And he's a Ravenclaw! He probably defeated You-Know-Who with his brains!"

Harry snorted, but they didn't hear him.

Hermione scowled, "Honestly, Ronald. Try again!"

"Wingardium Leviosa!" he shouted, waving his long arms like a windmill.

"You're saying it wrong," Hermione snapped. "It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

"You do it, then, if you're so clever," Ron snarled.

Harry shook his head – the poor boy was digging his own grave. If anyone could get the charm on their first try, it would be Hermione 'Brainiac' Granger, the smartest Gryffindor who ever lived, who had been invaluable to Harry during his research sessions.

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked her wand, and said, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Sure enough, the feather shivered, and then rose several feet.

"Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. "Everyone see here, Miss Granger's done it as well! Ten point to Gryffindor!"

The rest of class went quite smoothly, with most of the Ravenclaws and one more Gryffindor being able to at least partially levitate their feathers. Terry had attempted to get Harry back for the feather attack, but had failed magnificently, causing Harry and Michael to tease him until the end of class.

On the way out of the crowded classroom, Harry heard Ron Weasley talking to Seamus Finnigan beside him,

"It's no wonder no one can stand her; she's a nightmare, honestly."

Suddenly, a bushy haired projectile flew past the boys, darting down one of the dark corridors.

Harry turned toward Ron and glared. "I think she heard you."

"So?" said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "She must've noticed she's got no friends."

Harry's glare deepened. "She's got friends, and you'll wish you were one of them by the time final exams come."

Harry stalked off, followed by the other Ravenclaw boys.

"Are you going to go after her?" asked Stephen curiously.

Harry thought about what Jean had told him about crying women the other night. "No, I think that would be…unwise. I'll show her a good book in the library later, and she'll feel all better."

* * *

The feast took place a little more than an hour after – Harry was beyond gleeful to find piles and piles of teeth-rotting sweets heavily ornamenting the tables, stacked high in elaborate arrangements. The Great Hall was decorated exaggeratedly in Halloween decorations – pumpkins, bats, and even spiders floated about the ceiling of the Great Hall, which thundered ominously.

But as Harry was shovelling some more pastries onto his plate, he noticed, "Hermione's still not here, is she?"

Terry looked around and shook his head, sighing. "Weasley must have really hurt her feelings."

Harry's face scrunched up in thought, transforming into a smirk a moment later. "Oi Kevin, shove over a little, will you?"

Kevin immediately did so – after the Marcus Flint incident and several others like it, the first year Ravenclaws had learnt that Harry had very good aim when it came to curses, and was not afraid to use it to its fullest. And after seeing his multiple books on curses and hexes, they were all very accommodating.

Harry discreetly tucked the wand under his sleeve, pointing it at Ron and saying quietly, "_Mucus ad Nauseam_."

Terry winced. "He'll be sneezing and snivelling the whole feast."

"Exactly."

At that moment, Professor Qurrell came barrelling into the hall, quite frazzled and terrified. "Troll – in the dungeons – though you ought to know."

He promptly fainted.

Suddenly, the Great Hall was in an uproar, students darting to their feet and crying out in fear, confusion and disbelief - they were only silenced by the Headmaster's _Sonorous_ charm. "Prefects," his voice rumbled across the hall, "Lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

However, as Penelope and Robert attempted to gather all the Ravenclaws, Harry froze. Hermione – Hermione didn't know; she was still who-knew-where bawling her eyes out. He had to warn her – but going alone wouldn't be wise, not with a troll on the loose. He looked around the hall; a Gryffindor would be nice to have with him, but the only one he knew was Neville. He supposed he could take any of the Ravenclaws…but then a thought struck him, and it was far too brilliant to pass up.

Harry strode up to the bustling Slytherin table, coming to rest behind a familiar sleeked back mop of blonde hair.

"Oh Draco," he sang, "I could really use your help with something."

Draco's head snapped around. "Potter! In case you didn't notice, I'm a little busy at the moment!"

"Oh, come on Malfoy, I'll make it worth your while, I promise."

"Forget it, Potter, I'm getting out of here. In case you haven't heard, there's a _troll_ loose in the castle."

"I _said_, I'll make it worth your while."

"Oh," sneered Draco, "And how do you plan on doing that?"

Harry sighed. "Well, for starters, I'll curse anyone you want for a whole week, bar all Ravenclaws and teachers."

Draco faltered. "Fine."

Harry grinned, taking his arm and dragging him out of the Great Hall, unnoticed amidst all the chaos, and down one of the corridors.

"Are you going to tell me what this is about, Potter?" snapped Draco as Harry dragged him along.

"We're off to rescue Hermione Granger!"

"The mudblood?" Draco asked disbelievingly, not at all fazed by Harry's glare. "Let her die, or at least just tell a teacher or a prefect. Why drag me into this?"

"Because, Malfoy," Harry paused, thinking about why the idea appealed to him so much, and how to make Draco understand it. Ah. "I have a political agenda. People need to see that not all Ravenclaws are useless bookworms, and not all Slytherins are evil."

"And getting ourselves killed will help, how?"

"We won't die, Malfoy!" Harry snapped. "Don't you see the beauty of it? All those stories about two great Gryffindorish knights off to rescue the princess from the troll. Well today, it's going to be a Ravenclaw and a Slytherin rescuing the bushy haired Gryffindor muggleborn from the troll! It's like a fairy tale, but ironic! Brilliant, right?"

Draco simply looked unimpressed. "You had better learn some good curses for next week, Potter."

Harry nodded, pulling Draco down another corridor.

"Where are we going, Potter?"

"Well, girls like to cry in bathrooms, right? So I figured Hermione would go to the bathroom closest to the Charms classroom to cry."

Draco seemed to accept that, and both boys continued on, running up a short flight of stairs, happy to see the girls' bathroom nearby – but their happiness turned to horror when they heard a high pitched scream emanate from within.

Bursting into the bathroom, they found Hermione backed up against the wall, terrified, with tears running down her face, as the troll, a horrifyingly ugly creature no shorter than four metres, waddled over to her, knocking sinks and stall doors from the walls, growling stupidly amidst the hissing of ruptured pipes as it approached her.

Hermione looked just about ready to faint, but when she met Harry's gaze, a flicker of hope lighted her eyes.

"Malfoy!" Harry exclaimed, "Distract the troll!"

Draco turned to him, horrified. "What?" he whimpered.

"Get the troll away from Hermione, I need to think!"

Draco looked outraged, face crimson with both fear and anger. "You need to think? Would you like some tea and biscuits to help you along?"

"Well, that would be lovely, Malfoy, but in case you didn't notice, we're in a bathroom, and I don't like tea made from toilet water!"

Draco recognized that as a dismissal, and sighed shakily, gritting his teeth as he cast a stinging hex at the troll.

Meanwhile, Harry was trying very hard not to panic. A troll – a troll, troll, troll, troll…how to kill a troll…It was enormous, strong, with skin tougher than leather and magically resistant – and Harry didn't know any curses strong enough to break it. But even a troll had to have weak spots…the same weak spots that any humanoid creature would always have – eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Harry glanced frantically around the bathroom, eyes coming to rest on a broken pipe lying amidst the ruins of one of the shattered sinks. Taking a deep breath, he drew his wand and enunciated, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The pipe rose up beside him, and he looked over to the troll, which was currently chasing a frantically fleeing Draco. "Oi, shitface!" He picked up a piece of tile and threw it at the beast.

The troll's eyes fell on him, titling it's head, and as it opened its mouth to roar in rage, Harry took the opportunity to thrust his wand forward, launching the pipe into its mouth, watching with satisfaction as the sharp end of the pipe pierced through the back of the troll's skull, causing the great beast to fall to the ground, dead, a pool of blood steadily expanding below it.

Hermione rose shakily to her feet. "You k-killed it."

"Well it's not as though I could have kept it as a pet," Harry drawled, looking over to terrified-looking Draco, whose robe was torn and wet. "You alright there, Malfoy?"

"Splendid, Potter," the boy managed to snap, though he still looked even paler than usual.

Just then, a torrent of loud footsteps approached the bathroom, preceding the arrival of Professor McGonagall, and behind her Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell. Taking one look at the dead troll, the squeamish professor let out a whimper and collapsed onto a pile of rubble. Whilst Professor Snape glanced coldly at the children but went on immediately to check on the troll, Professor McGonagall full-on glared at them.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice.

Draco looked over at Harry anxiously, his gaze holding a slight bite that said, '_I'm so not taking the fall for this_.'

"You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"

Professor Snape, who seemed to have finished inspecting the troll, turned to Harry and Draco; his face was stoic, but Harry could tell that there was rage underneath, along with no small amount of bewilderment.

Suddenly, a small, shaky voice spoke, alerting everyone to Hermione's presence. "Please, Professor McGonagall – they were looking for me."

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione managed to steady her legs, and stepped forward, face red with shame. "I went look-"

Harry, realizing that Hermione was going to take all the blame, quickly interrupted. "Hermione was feeling ill after Charms, and didn't make it to the feast. She hadn't heard about the troll, so I thought she should know."

Professor McGonagall turned her disapproving glare straight back to Harry, before Hermione spoke up again. "If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now for sure. Malfoy distracted the troll, and Harry launched a pipe right through it. They didn't have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived."

"Well – in that case…" said Professor McGonagall fixing Harry and Draco with a glare, "Five points from Slytherin and Ravenclaw each, for directly disobeying the headmaster and going off on your own without a teacher…"

Harry cringed, and Draco looked horrified.

"But ten points to each of you, for caring for the well-being of a student not even in your own house. And for sheer dumb luck."

Harry smirked, but wiped it off his face when McGonagall's glare turned threatening.

* * *

On the afternoon of November 1st, the library was quite quiet, and Harry, Terry, and Michael were some of the only students present. Fred and George Weasley had somehow managed to spike the upper-years' punch at the Halloween feast – apparently, most still had hangovers.

Michael looked up from _Spirits and Their Ways_. "Nothing in here either – I'm starting to think there isn't a way to exorcise ghosts."

Terry nodded, closing his own text. "I agree."

Harry scowled. "There must be."

Terry frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, think for a moment about Peeves," Harry began, "He's able to pull pranks, irritate teachers, and cause all sorts of mayhem – what if his intentions weren't so innocent? What if he actually wanted to hurt people? He easily could - with his creativity, the results would be disastrous...and possibly quite funny. There must be malicious spirits lurking around somewhere; people who died violently, psychologically suppressed housewives, criminals, deranged psychopaths from the mental ward at St. Mungos – and there must be a way to get rid of them."

Michael nodded. "Since you don't ever hear of people being sent to St. Mungos due to a ghost attack."

"Exactly."

"Then why aren't we finding anything?" Terry whined.

Harry tapped his chin. "Perhaps we'll have to go the muggle route…"

"_Muggles_ can exorcise spirits?" Michael asked incredulously.

"That's what they say. There are plenty of muggle religious systems that claim to have ways of exorcising spirits. The trick would be to find which ones are accurate, and which ones deal with the right kind of spirit. But I'm still not convinced we've exhausted all our options," mused Harry.

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Terry, "We've read the entire library section on spirits!"

"But not the restricted section," Harry added.

"You already tried to get a pass, didn't you?" Michael said.

"Well, yes but if I keep trying, maybe someone will relent. Or, we could just sneak in."

"How would we get away with sneaking into the restricted section?"

"I'm still working on that one…" Harry mused, ignoring the dubious stares being sent his way.

"Potter!"

The boys turned around, finding a very irate Draco Malfoy approaching them.

"Hullo Malfoy, what can I do for you?"

Draco glared. "Snape gave me _detention_! Me! Detention!"

"Well, it happens to the best of us," said Harry, "McGonagall gave me detention after the strawberry flavoured mouse jelly incident in Transfiguration."

"I heard all about that one – you deserved it! Last night was all your fault, not mine!"

"It was awesome, though," Terry piped up, "Harry told us all about the troll!"

"Shut up, Boot! I'm not talking to you!" Draco snapped, turning to glare at Harry, who just sighed.

"Listen, Malfoy, there's nothing I can do about it now. Look on the bright side, I'll curse whoever you want for the rest of the week, as per our deal, so you can forward your evil scheme of asserting your dominance over Slytherin House or whatever the hell it is you're trying to do."

Draco made a noise that sounded like a grudging agreement.

"Do you have a list ready? So I can get an early start?"

Draco dug his hands into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. "The underlined names deserve really nasty ones."

Harry nodded, and grinned. "Good, there's a new one I've been meaning to try out – it stimulates the nerves in your spine to make it feel like something's crawling up it for twenty four whole hours. When it's over, a whole bunch of festering spider bites are left - my theory is that the curse actually summons microscopic arachnids beneath the victim's skin, and chew their way out afterward."

Draco shivered. "And people say that Slytherins are the messed up ones."

"Harry's unique, even in Ravenclaw," Michael pointed out.

Draco accepted that easily. "And what of your political aspirations, Potter?"

Terry and Michael turned to look at Harry interestedly as well.

Harry froze – Draco had taken him seriously…great, just great. Did he even have any political aspirations? He really didn't give a crap about what anyone else did…

"I assume you'll be taking up the Potter Family's place at Wizengamot, one day."

The Potters had a seat in Wizengamot? Oh. Harry nodded, "Among other things…"

Draco looked interested. "Like what?"

"Well, I was thinking either space exploration, or world domination…"

Michael's pen dropped. Draco's eyes bugged out. Terry gaped.

"You can't be serious."

"You know, I think I am…"

Who knows? Maybe world domination could be fun.

* * *

Review, and I'll give you a cookie – a massless, intangible, unperceivable cookie, but a cookie nonetheless (why is it still a cookie? Because I said it is). Anyway, click, click!


	9. Of Quidditch and Quandaries

**Disclaimer:** I own…ok, let me think about this…

**AN:** Thank you, guys, so much, for reading, reviewing, and enjoying, it means a lot to me, and your reviews make me smile. Cheers, all of you! *Hands out cyber-cookies*

* * *

**Chapter 9: Of Quidditch and Quandaries**

It was mid-November, and Harry was seated in the Potions classroom, irately tapping his quill against the desk (causing a blob of ink to form which looked ominously like a Black Spot) and glaring at the blackboard. He was barely able to concentrate on Professor Snape's droning lecture. Now, Harry had been doing fine in Potions – as long as he kept his head down, Professor Snape gave him the grades he deserved, which were usually decent ones – but sometimes, he _really_ wished he could ask questions, or try new things. Like now. They were learning to brew the Forgetfulness Potion, and the particular ingredients used had Harry's head spinning with possibilities, none of which appeared in the lecture or the textbook. Professor Snape, of course, was stalking across the classroom quite evilly, going on about how volatile the potion could get during one of the steps, glaring venomously at the Hufflepuffs as he warned against dunderheadedness – while implying that it was inevitable. Poor Hannah Abbot looked just about ready to faint.

Harry looked over at his partner, Padma, who was listening to the professor with a look of adulation on her face, leading Harry to believe that she fancied the dark, greasy haired man – Harry supposed it was possible, seeing as he was the youngest Hogwarts professor, and had that dark mysterious air going for him; aside from his rather large nose, he didn't have a _bad_ face either (he'd read once that the western aesthetic valued symmetry, and the professor's face was indeed symmetric)…but still? It was like him crushing on McGonagall or something - it was weird.

Back to the Forgetfulness Potion; it was fairly straight forward, with all the ingredients having fairly clear purposes, but the relatively small amount of Valerian sprigs – Valerian sprigs, Valerian sprigs…they were good in the Forgetfulness Potion, but…

"Potter."

Harry snapped to attention, shocked to find the professor staring at him. What had he done? "Yes sir?"

"You look like you want to say something," the man drawled, quirking an eyebrow.

Harry gulped, but nodded. "I…I do. The Valerian sprigs, sir…you said that they are a sedative."

"Ah, so you were listening," Professor Snape sneered.

"I was, and I also noticed that they are not used anywhere else in our first year text book. What I was wondering was, are they a powerful enough sedative to be of use in other potions? Such as…sleeping drafts and even poisons that affect the brain?"

Snape was silent for a moment, staring at Harry appraisingly with stark black eyes. "Potter, do you, a mere first year, deem yourself to be above the amount of knowledge presented to you in your textbook?" he said scathingly.

Harry took a deep breath, biting back an equally snarky comment, or a simple 'yes.' "I was merely curious, sir. I am a Ravenclaw, after all."

Snape glared at him hard, seemingly waiting for him to look away, but he didn't. "Indeed. Very well, Potter. If you can brew a potion by the end of class with Valerian sprigs as its main ingredient, with affects similar to what you postulated, I will award Ravenclaw…ten points."

The entire class gasped, and Harry's eyes widened. _Are you…challenging me?_

"Patil can brew with Boot and Goldstein, and you may take your cauldron to the desk at the back of the classroom."

Glee was starting to overtake Harry at this point.

"Or do you not think yourself capable?" Snape sneered at him.

Harry nodded determinedly. "I'll get right on it, sir."

By the time Professor Snape had finished inspecting and marking all the other student's potions, Harry had barely finished the last stirring sequence of his potion. Sighing and turning off the burner, he jumped ever so slightly when he found Professor Snape's imposing form standing over his cauldron. All eyes now rested on the two of them.

"Well, Potter, you seem to have avoided blowing yourself up. Pity." He looked into Harry's cauldron. "Care to share with the class what is in your…concoction?"

Harry took a deep breath and stood. "I started with a bag of Standard Ingredient as the base, and added the Valerian sprigs right after…" He looked up at the professor, who simply stared back with a blank face. "I used porcupine quills as a buffer, and then added hellebore syrup to intensify the effects of the Valerian sprigs-"

"And why did you use hellebore syrup instead of essence of hellebore?" Professor Snape interrupted piercingly.

"Because the syrup is already processed, and the effects are softened – I'm in a pretty good mood so I didn't want to risk blowing up the classroom," Harry said bluntly, mumbling, "Though _you_ probably wouldn't have minded so long as it took me out…"

The professor only quirked an eyebrow at that.

"I added a few more Valerian sprigs after, to make sure that the effects stayed strong." He looked up at Professor Snape, finding his face still blank.

"But that is not all that is in this potion, Potter, is it?"

Harry shook his head. "I added ground morning glory seeds."

Harry could have sworn he saw the corners of professor's lips quirk upward in amusement. "And why would you do that, Potter?"

"For their hallucinogenic properties – to induce nightmares."

Professor Snape turned back to the class, stalking to the front of the room. "What Potter has created resembles a weaker, unstable version of the Nightmare Potion and its sister, the Draught of Peace, both of which you will not learn until your OWL year. As you can see, Valerian sprigs _are_ a strong enough sedative to induce sleep and even death – as such, take this as a warning: do _not_ attempt to mix Valerian sprigs with an accelerant such as hellebore, as doing so without the proper caution could result in placing yourself in a deep, possibly irreversible sleep. That being said, fifteen points to Ravenclaw, for _sheer dumb luck_. Class dismissed!"

Harry froze a few moments before he left the classroom stunned, not knowing whether or not it was the morning glory seeds that had made him believe he had seen Professor Snape smirk at him on the way out. He snapped to attention when Terry elbowed him in the ribs.

"Blimey mate, Professor Snape _never _gives out points, and you got _fifteen_! That's got to be a record!"

"We'll have to ask Robert later," commented Kevin.

"Figures he'd give points to the one he almost kicked out," mumbled Michael.

"See," Stephen piped up, "Even Michael's jealous."

He received a hearty scowl.

"But seriously, Harry," Anthony said, coming up behind them, "Good job. Potions is the last place I thought you'd be winning Ravenclaw points."

Harry squinted. "Are you somehow implying that I don't win enough points?"

Anthony shook his head. "Not at all – you win quite a few. But you lose them as well."

"Like last Transfiguration class…" mumbled Kevin.

Harry scowled. "I don't know why she took points off for that. It was brilliant."

"You transfigured my hair into feathers! And you couldn't get it back!" cried Terry.

Harry shrugged. "It was a good bit of transfiguration."

"He's right, you know," Stephen said.

"And it was funny," Michael added.

"Urgh! Why is it always me?"

"Because, Terry," Harry said, "Our names rhyme."

Terry scowled. "Whatever." He perked up. "You coming to the quidditch game this afternoon? It's Gryffindor versus Slytherin."

"Why? it's not even our house playing."

Terry and Michael gaped at him. "But it's quidditch! And Gryffindor and Slytherin, they're the biggest rivals in the school –"

"A school with only four houses, might I add," said Harry.

"- and it's bound to be epic!"

Harry sighed.

"Come on mate, we're all going," said Stephen, "It'll be good fun."

"More fun than snagging a copy of _Magick Moste Evile_ from the Restricted Section?"

Michael sneered. "Even _you_ couldn't pull that off."

"Maybe not now, but just wait until I master the Disillusionment Charm…"

"But you haven't yet, that's the point," Kevin interrupted, "And the quidditch game is _today_."

"Right, I get it, quidditch is some sort of huge right-of-passage ordeal – I'm in."

Terry beamed. "Yes! You'll love quidditch, Harry, you'll see!"

* * *

Harry was BORED. He'd been watching the game for a half hour, and he had to admit, watching all the brooms and quaffles and bludgers whip around the quidditch pitch was pretty neat, amusing too, and the game even looked like a lot of fun to play – but right about now, he was wishing that someone would get in a fight or fall off their broom or _something_…and that was never a good sign.

"I have to use the loo," he said suddenly, resisting the temptation to hex one of the players' brooms.

Terry glanced over at him momentarily. "Right then, but be back soon. You never know when you might miss a good play!"

Harry nodded and leapt out of his seat, scurrying down from the bleachers, striding purposefully down the gravelly path that lead back to the castle. No, he didn't have to use the loo, and yes, he was just trying to get away. He was bored, and Harry hated being bored – it's like your very soul is telling you that you're wasting time, after all; and when an abstract, indiscernible, and possibly indefinite, profound ontological property/entity is telling you that you're wasting time, you _really_ must be wasting time. Truth be told, spending the afternoon in the library alone wasn't much better (alone, because _everyone_ was at the game, even Professor Snape, who Harry had begun to think could not go out in the sunlight), but still, it was warmer inside.

His quick pace down the castle corridor, however, slackened when he heard the sound of muffled crying. Now, Harry hated it when people cried, and was inclined to run the other way, but it sounded like the high, under-developed voice of another first year – perhaps he could help, like shock them into laughing, or something. Harry liked it when people laughed. Or stared at him in horror. That was funny too. The smirk on his face, however, melted off when he saw none other than Neville Longbottom, sitting alone on a stone bench covered in orange and yellow and scarlet fallen leaves, weeping into his hands.

Harry approached cautiously, trying to soften his voice, "Neville?"

Neville's head snapped up, and upon seeing Harry, the boy immediately sniffed and wiped his eyes furiously, trying very hard to put on a friendly blank face. "Harry! Why aren't you at the quidditch pitch?"

Harry sat down beside Neville as he scooted over. "I was bored. Why aren't you?"

"I…I…oh, I just didn't feel like it."

"You don't have to lie to me Neville, we're friends, right?"

Neville looked up to him adoringly, tears threatening to spill once again.

Harry panicked. "We are! We're friends! No doubt about that!"

Neville bit his lip. "They left me…Ron and Seamus and the others, and then I got lost on the staircases…and by the time I found my way out, the quidditch game had long since started, and I'm too ashamed to go now…"

Harry frowned, but nodded.

Neville continued. "It's just…I can never fit in with the other boys in my dorm – th-they don't like me, and they think I'm a coward! And I am, a bloody coward! Afraid of my own shadow, just like Professor Quirrel…" His voice died into a whimper.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Is that what they tell you?"

Neville nodded sadly. "I should have been in Hufflepuff – I'm good for nothing, a right duffer."

"Hufflepuffs are good for lots of things! Trust me, I would know…"

A smirk fleeted across Neville's face, but then disappeared. "But still, I don't belong in Gryffindor."

Harry looked at him intently. "The hat wanted to put you in Hufflepuff first, didn't it?"

Neville looked heartbroken, sniffing and nodding.

"But you asked it to put you in Gryffindor, didn't you?"

Neville's ears were tinted pink, but he nodded again.

"Well, why did you do that?"

Neville hesitated slightly. "My mum and dad, they were Gryffindors. My grandmum, she said that they were real brave, true Gryffindors. They – they really were; they fought in the war, they defied You-Know-Who! And I can't even say his name…"

"Voldemort," said Harry.

Neville looked up at him, startled.

"Voldemort," Harry repeated, "If you're scared, just say it."

"V-V-Voldemort, they stood up against him! They fought, and they protected me, even against the Lestranges, some of his most fierce followers, when they came for us! I was only one year old, when they went into hiding, but even then, they were so brave…" Neville burst into tears. "They did what was right, and it cost them everything – they gave it all up for me, and I wanted to make them proud. I wanted for their sacrifice not to be in vain, to be a son worthy of F-Frank and Alice L-Longbottom! I wanted to honour their bravery, by being brave myself…"

Harry swallowed tightly, the heartfelt soliloquy causing his thoughts to run a mile a minute. "And that's why you asked the hat for Gryffindor."

Neville nodded.

"That's not why it put you there, you know."

Neville's head whipped around to stare at him.

"It put you there not because you asked, but because you were _brave enough_ to ask."

Nevilles eyes were wide, his mouth open with a sort of shock that looked somewhere between sadness, reminiscence, hope, and joy.

Harry rose to his feet, pulling Neville up with him. "It sounds like we have the same sort of problem, Neville."

"W-w-we do?"

Harry nodded, "We do. You see Neville, you're not a coward, you're just going through an existential crisis."

Neville blinked as Harry led him into the castle, down a dark corridor. "A what?"

"An existential crisis, when you doubt the meaning and worth of your own existence. It's an important moment in every man's life. I, on the other hand, am bored. Both can be resolved by the same thing, however."

Neville looked at him with wide eyes. "How?"

Harry grinned rather wickedly. "An existential risk."

"W-what's that?"

"And existential risk is a potential disaster that threatens the very existence of humanity," Harry said airily.

A look of horror was growing over Neville's face.

"Not to worry, though, we won't need to find something on so great a scale. In fact, I've got just the thing."

"And what's that?" Neville asked nervously.

"The third floor corridor."

* * *

"H-Harry," Neville began, looking around nervously as they stalked stealthily through the darkness of the third floor corridor, "Are you sure this is g-going to make me braver?"

Harry glanced at him. "I already explained, Neville, you're already brave. You just need to, you know, learn to show it. Convince yourself. And yeah, this should help." He walked over to one of the dusty alcoves in the wall, pulling open the cobwebbed wooden door, glaring slightly when he found it was only another broom closet. "Damn it! Another one! I'm starting to think that the headmaster was screwing with us when he said we awaited a painful death up here…"

"I-I don't think so, Dumbledore's a great man, that's what my grandmum says."

Harry shrugged, casting his eyes down the corridor, squealing with delight when they caught something of interest, and darting forward.

"W-wait! Harry! Where are you going!"

"Come on, Neville!"

Neville sighed, and ran up to Harry, finding him standing at the end of the corridor, in front of a great wooden door, bound with iron hinges and an iron lock. The door seemed to have an intimidating effect on Neville, who cowered back slightly.

"See, see! This is what we're looking for! Tell me, Neville, how's this door different from all the others?" Harry asked excitedly.

"Um…it's…scarier?" Neville tried.

Harry scowled. "No! Try again. Look at it, how's it _look _different."

"It's…" Neville squinted, then his eyes widened. "…there's less dust around it, than the others."

Harry nodded approvingly. "Which suggests that someone's been in here more recently!" He grinned, shaking the handle, causing the door to clatter slightly. "And look! It's locked too! It's perfect, a door, a locked one!"

"Right, so, since it's locked, we better get going…" But Harry had grabbed his sleeve.

"Don't be silly, Neville, that can be easily rectified." He pointed his wand at the door, "_Alohomora._"Sure enough, the lock clicked open, and after grinning at his very nervous looking companion, Harry opened the door, peering inside. "Come on, Neville! You have to see this!" Harry grabbed Neville and dragged him inside.

Glancing about the room, Neville suddenly let out a yelp, and fell backwards against the door, looking at Harry and the slumbering, gigantic beast behind him with no small amount of terror and horror in his eyes. "H-H-Harry! W-w-what is that?"

Harry turned from the dog-like creature, looking at Neville with a pleased smirk. "This, Neville, is a Cerberus. Named after their ancestor, Cerberus, the guard of the Underworld, Cerberi are three-headed corporeal hellhounds. Cerberus, commonly mispronounced with a soft 'c' by English speakers, comes from the Latinized version of the Greek Kerberos, which may or may not come from Sanskrit…."

"Er, Harry?"

"Yes, Neville?"

"I-i-it's…"

"It's woken up, hasn't it?"

Neville whimpered and nodded.

Slowly turning his head to look over his shoulder, Harry was confronted with the three snarling faces. "Neville?"

"Harry?"

"I want you to know that, at this point, running is in no way cowardly."

Both boys let out a shriek as the great beast pounced up to them, and they were barely able to dart out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them, unscathed, hearing the Cerberus throwing its temper tantrum inside once the door was closed. The door latch clicked, locking once again.

Harry laboured to calm his breathing, giving Neville an uneasy grin. "Well, feel braver yet?"

"I…I really d-don't know."

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "It's the shock. It'll wear off in a few hours."

"A-and then I'll feel braver?"

"Well, either that, or you'll feel stupider...but I hear that for Gryffindors, it's pretty much the same thing..."

Neville gave a shaky smile and nod, following Harry as he began to trek over to the stairs.

"Say Neville, when's your birthday?"

Neville looked at him oddly. "July 30th..."

Harry's eyes widened. "What do you know, day before mine…"

"Why?"

"Uh, no reason, I just thought I'd, uh, send you a present when the time comes…"

Neville smiled softly. "I'll send you one, then, too."

* * *

Later, that evening, Harry had gone off to the library with the Minor Arcana in his pockets and Neville's words concerning his parents on his mind – the similarities between their stories were eerily uncanny. Why were James and Lily Potter and Frank and Alice Longbottom made targets around the same time? Especially when both families had gone into hiding, and had a young child? Or did these similarities have something to do with the reason…

At a secluded desk in the Herbology section, he idly flipped over a few cards, in the end, all of them suggesting one thing – he needed guidance. Damn Ten of Wands. And he knew exactly who he needed to go to.

That was how he found himself, only an hour before curfew, knocking on the door of Professor McGonagall's office.

"Come in," came her curt, Scottish accented voice, muffled by the door.

Slowly, Harry opened it, taking in her surprised face before walking up to her desk.

"How may I help you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry bit his lip. "I, uh…Professor Flitwick told me a while back that you were my parents' Head of House. I…I was wondering if you could tell me about them."

Harry was shocked to find a warm smile inching across the strict professor's face. "Have a seat, Mr. Potter."

Harry did so, and looked at her expectantly.

"Lily Evans was perhaps one of the most brilliant Gryffindors I've seen in the last thirty years – she was a quick thinker, witty, curious, and studious…she would have made a wonderful Ravenclaw. But she was bold and principled, and she had a temper – what a temper. Lily was a kind girl, but would not tolerate tomfoolery and cruelty among her classmates – no one was surprised when she was made prefect and then Head Girl, and almost everyone made sure to steer clear of her temper. Except James Potter."

Harry's eyebrows rose.

"James Potter was the only heir to the Potter family, a proud, confident young man, and perhaps the biggest troublemaker I have ever met – and that is saying something, Mr. Potter, for I am the Head of Gryffindor House. James Potter, along with his housemates Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew were, for seven whole years, constant usurpers of the natural order here at Hogwarts." She smiled fondly. "They called themselves the Marauders, if I remember correctly – lost Gryffindor more points than anyone else had in years, but somehow managed to win them all back eventually. For six years, Lily and James could not remain in the same room for very long without a fight breaking out – yet no one was truly shocked when they became a couple in their seventh year, and were married right out of Hogwarts."

Harry sniffed quietly, taking in a deep breath. "And then…after they graduated….they fought against Voldemort?"

Professor McGonagall flinched only slightly, impressing Harry. She looked at him sadly. "After Hogwarts, James went on to become an auror, and Lily did some charms work, with Professor Flitwick, I believe – during this time, they were invaluable to the effort against You-Kno – Voldemort. They were very brave, Mr. Potter. They fought hard, until they went into hiding, around the time of your birth…"

"See, but that's what I don't understand…"

Professor McGonagall looked up at him.

"My father was just a young auror, and my mother, well, she was a new mother, and was in no position fight – on top of that, they were in hiding. Why would Voldemort go after them? Weren't there more important targets, even ones that might have been easier to get to? Head aurors? Government officials? The Headmaster?"

Professor McGonagall looked as though there were tears in her eyes. "I do not know, Mr. Potter. Your parents must have done something that…"

"That's what I thought to, until today. I was thinking…maybe it wasn't them. Neville Longbottom's parents were attacked around the same time…what if, what if it wasn't our parents? Neville and I are almost the exact same age, only a day's difference, and our parents were killed almost at the same time…that really can't be a coincidence – what if it was something…something to do with us?"

"Mr. Potter, how could you and Mr. Longbottom have possibly…"

"I don't know, professor. All I know is…it's a coincidence, a strange one, and it doesn't make any sense. I…I just want to know the truth…"

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes, then opened them toward Harry, deep sorrow shining within them. "Some things we can never know, Mr. Potter, and some things…we should be happy that we don't know."

That told Harry far more than any other answer she could have given him.

* * *

Harry collapsed on his soft mattress, not even looking at Jean's portrait, which lay beside him.

They sat like that for a long time, silent, neither of them daring to disturb the quiet, which was not at all polluted by Stephen's soft snoring, the chirping of the few crickets lingering in the late autumn, and the cold breeze brushing up against the castle walls. It was willful silence, stillness – pure; neither of them cared where it came from or why it had come, until Harry spoke up, whispering brokenly,

"I…I think it's my fault my parents were killed, Jean…"

Jean really didn't know what to say to that.

* * *

Thoughts? Opinions? I'd love to hear them.


	10. Of Mirrors and Mirages

**Disclaimer:** *Sigh* I don't own anything but the ideas infected with my personal brand of insanity.

**AN:** Thanks you guys, for reading and reviewing! I really love to hear your thoughts, and it makes me unbelievably happy when it sounds like you're enjoying my story.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Of Mirrors and Mirages**

Harry lay awake, a cold December morning – too cold to stay in his nightclothes, and too weary to rise from his bed and change. He had not been sleeping well, of late. At first, his lack of sleep was due to guilt; his semi-revelation about his parents' deaths had weighed heavily on his mind, before he realized he was mistaken in his conclusion – he had been a baby at the time, he hadn't exactly committed a crime by merely existing, had he? And then Neville's words returned to his mind – his parents weren't victims, they were _brave_. They had protected him, by _choice_; he had to honour him, not blame himself for their deaths. Admittedly, this path of enlightenment was not of his own making, as Jean had spent several hours ranting some sense into him when he had explained how he came to the conclusion that his parents' deaths were his fault, but still, he felt quite proud of himself when his guilt was alleviated. If only he could have gotten some decent sleep then.

When he began to actually sleep again, not merely lay awake musing sombrely to himself, he found that his sleeps were no longer peaceful. Jean thought that the gift of oneiromancy was developing in him; Harry thought some higher deity was getting off screwing with his beauty sleep. In the end, it didn't matter – he simply wasn't sleeping well. He'd stay awake late every night, perfecting the _muffliato_ charm as he chatted with Jean, reading his 'Guide to Awesomeness.' He had also taken up _Les Propheties_ of late (and was of the private opinion that Nostradamus was a nutcase). His head would hit the pillow before midnight, and he would sleep peacefully for a few hours – until the dreams started; at first, it was only an uneasy feeling, and then it was only a snippet or two. But slowly, every night for the last month, they would get longer and longer, until they completed a repetitive sequence – one minute, he would be standing in front of an old house on a cold, stormy night, and then everything would flash green, and then black; and then he was staring at himself in a circle of flames, until the flames engulfed him, searing his skin off…and then he was drenched in rain, staring at the old house again. It was disconcerting, the whole thing. And he would always wake up, ere long, with the bloody bird tapping on the window.

As it was once again, but he didn't have the strength to shoo it away. He opened his mouth, voice cracking as he sang in hopes of lulling himself to sleep,

_"I wonder what tomorrow has in mind for me_  
_Or am I even in its mind at all_  
_Perhaps I'll get a chance to look ahead and see_  
_Soon as I find myself a crystal ball_…._"_

Unfortunately, he already had a crystal ball, and it hadn't been showing him anything useful lately. His voice faded into silence, just as he heard Terry burst out of the bathroom.

"Oi, Harry, you up yet?"

Terry had been the only first year Ravenclaw to stay at the castle with Harry over Christmas break. He had said that his parents had plans to travel to Prague during the holidays, and that, in the end, he'd rather stay with Harry at Hogwarts – because Harry was 'more entertaining than stuffy business meetings and house-elf nannies.' Unfortunately, the boy did not seem to understand the concept of sleeping in during the holidays.

"Oi, mate, let's get breakfast before it's all gone."

Harry scowled at his curtains. "That one doesn't work when the school's practically empty."

"Ha! So you are awake!"

Harry grimaced, slightly horrified; he had just been tricked – by _Terry Boot_. His lack of sleep really was getting to him.

"If you don't get up, soon, I'll lay siege on your bed!"

Harry groaned. "I'm up, I'm up! Just let me get changed."

It was Christmas holidays, so Harry was pleased that he no longer had to wear the stuffy uniform all the time – he slipped on the Led Zeppelin t-shirt and some jeans, along with some woolly socks to keep him warm. He shoved the royal blue curtains away, jamming his feet into his sneakers.

"Wow…somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

Harry glared at him.

They both managed to make it down to the Great Hall alive – that is, without Harry strangling Terry – finding a sugary-looking breakfast on the table, and the hall even more cluttered with glimmering, flamboyant Christmas decorations than it had been the day before. The decorations adorning the tree, an enormous, full evergreen, were all put up – ribbons that rained glitter and changed colours, ornaments that floated and glowed, bobbing up and down as charmed angel figurines darted about the tree.

Harry glared at the Christmas tree. "I wonder if angels really exist," he said flatly as he sat down, immediately stuffing a chocolate-filled pastry in his mouth.

Terry shrugged, piling some gingerbread and jelly onto his plate. "It would be nice if they did."

Harry sneered. "Well they've sure done a splendid job of bestowing good-will upon men and all that rot."

Terry frowned at him. "What's up with you?"

Harry frowned back. "Huh?"

"You're all…you're sort of being a bit of a bastard, really."

"I'm always like this."

"I know that, it's just…it's Christmas, mate! Cheer up!"

Harry blanched. "Why?"

"Decorations, snow, sweets, and presents! Aren't you excited for Christmas? For what your relatives will send you?"

"Christmas dinner will be nice, but my relatives won't be sending me anything, that's for sure."

Terry looked very confused. "But it's Christmas, won't they want to send you at least a card or something?"

"They never have, and they never will," Harry shrugged.

"But why?" Terry looked outraged.

"Because they hate me."

"I'm sure they don't –"

"They do. And I hate them too. We've sort of got this whole, mutual-symbiotic-hatred thing going on. It works."

Terry appeared to be at a complete loss. "But why?"

"Because they hated my parents, and they hate magic, and they just hate me. They always have, stupid muggles. And I don't really care."

"But Harry, they're your family!"

Harry looked at him sharply. "No, they're not. There's more to family than blood. You're more of a family to me than they'll ever be."

Tears filled Terry's wide, brown eyes. "Really? You mean it?"

Harry grimaced. "Of course. I may have issues, but I'm not a pathological liar." Well, about that…

Terry threw himself at Harry, embracing him tightly. "Oh, Harry, it's like we're brothers! That's so sweet! You're such a great friend."

Harry squirmed violently under him. "I didn't say that...Get off, Terry! Now! Get! Off! You're causing a scene!"

Terry drew back, wiping the tears from his eyes and glancing about the Great Hall, finding all eyes on them – well, except the Weasley twins, who were laughing so hard their eyes were pinched shut. He blushed. "Oops. Sorry."

Harry shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Terry looked at him. "So, since you're family…er, relatives aren't sending you anything for Christmas, I suppose I'll have to get you something, yeah?"

Harry shook his head. "Don't bother, I don't really need anything."

"But do you _want_ anything?"

Harry tapped his chin thoughtfully, tilting his head like Jean often did. "I suppose…I suppose, what I'd really like is for Professor Snape to take me on as his apprentice of dark snarkiness. I'd really like to learn how to intimidate people as thoroughly as he does…"

Terry grimaced. "Umm… I think I'll just find you a good book on spell-crafting theory, or something like that…"

"That would be good too."

Suddenly, they were interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing behind them, and they both turned to find a sheepish looking Ron Weasley standing behind them.

"I, er… Fred and George and I were planning on having a snowball war outside. Cedric Diggory and another Hufflepuff are coming too. We…we were wondering if you two wanted to come?" he said, his voice squeaking slightly.

Harry looked over at Terry's wickedly gleeful face, raising an eyebrow as he began bouncing in his seat, and said, "Terry would love to. I can't, though."

Terry looked over at him, a dumbstruck look on his face. "But Harry…snowballs…war…"

"I know, but I have something I need to do," he said regretfully, and seeing Terry's puzzled look, he added, "Privately."

Terry sighed and nodded. "Right. Come on, Weasley, let's leave Harry to go off and plot bloody murder or whatever he's up to."

After the two boys had left, along with several others from the other tables, Harry rose from his own spot. After he had gone up to Ravenclaw Tower to fetch his jacket and scarf, he slipped out of the castle onto a snow-covered dirt path. The path led from the outdoor courtyard of the castle to a small stone hut just at the edge of the Forbidden Forest – Harry, after making some inquiries, had discovered it to be the home of the gamekeeper, one Rubeus Hagrid, the friendly half-giant who had first escorted the first years into Hogwarts. If Draco Malfoy was to be believed, Hagrid was also a barbaric oaf, but Harry had long since learnt to take the blonde haired boy's words with a grain of salt (and pepper, if necessary).

Reaching toward the wooden door, which didn't look all that well insulated, Harry rapped on it three times, stepping back when the enormous man answered.

"Well, well, who's this 'ere? 'S a bit chilly fer a mornin' walk, ain't it?"

"I suppose it is...I'm Harry Potter, sir."

"Blimey! 'Arry Potter, is it? You sure grown since I last saw yeh, didn't yeh?"

"Er…we've met?"

"Course we have! Yeh were just a little 'un then, but I held yeh 'n everything!"

Harry smiled softly.

"Oh! Where are my manners! Come in, 'Arry, come in!"

At the invitation, Harry stepped into the hut, sitting down on the fur-covered chair offered to him.

"Now, 'Arry, whas' brought yeh all the way down 'ere on such a cold day?"

"I was wondering, sir…"

"No, no, none o' that 'sir' stuff! Call me Hagrid!"

"Right, well, Hagrid, since you're the gamekeeper, you know about all the magical creatures on the Hogwarts grounds, yeah?"

Hagrid smiled proudly. "Yeh bet I do! Take good care of 'em all, too. Yeh see, Harry, most of 'em magical creatures, they're just misunderstood, is all – they just need a bit of love 'n care."

Harry nodded slowly, eyebrows raised. "Right, then you'd know about a certain Cerberus in a closet down the third floor corridor?"

"Of course I do! I –" Hagrid stopped short, frowning, "Now, what were yeh doing up there, 's forbidden!"

"Well yes, I realized why after I ran into the hellhound."

"Fluffy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"'Is name is Fluffy. Named 'im myself."

Harry gaped. "You've got a hellhound, and you named him Fluffy? Not Bane, or Lord Chaos, or Gore the Destroyer? _Fluffy?_"

"Well he is!"

"…among other things."

Hagrid nodded in acquiescence. "Well, jus' make sure yeh don' go up there again."

"Don't worry, I don't plan to. I'm not stupid, after all. But there was this one thing, Hagrid, I couldn't help but notice that…Fluffy was asleep atop a trap door – as though he was guarding something…"

"Now see here," Hagrid began sternly, "That, that's between Headmaster Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel -" He paused. "Oops…I shouldn't have said that."

"Flamel?" Harry exclaimed, eyes wide.

"I shouldn't have said that! Now, see 'ere, Harry, yeh can't tell anyone about this, and yeh can't go pokin' around on the third floor corridor, yeh hear?"

Harry nodded. "I understand Hagrid, don't worry – I won't tell anyone barring any extreme circumstances."

Hagrid nodded gratefully, relieved. "Thas' good. Now, would yeh like some rock cakes? Just made 'em!"

* * *

Nursing his teeth (which he had been sure had been cracked by Hagrid's cakes) on the way back to the castle, Harry had considered Hagrid's words; Nicholas Flamel – known even by muggles, a renowned French alchemist famous for his work on the Philosopher's Stone…who lived during the 1300 and 1400s. It was impossible for him to still be alive – unless his work was successful, and he had created a Philosopher's Stone, which was fabled to be able to produce the elixir of life. Was it possible…? Harry had tried to find some more information in the library, but had found nothing of interest, or that he didn't already know.

Which led him to Christmas morning. Of course, he hadn't exactly had a pleasant sleep, but he was quite enjoying having the morning to revel in the softness of the sheets – he had been up late the previous night, researching more about the Philosopher's Stone. Unfortunately, the cool quiet of the morning did not last long…he should have known better.

"Get up, Harry! Get up!"

Harry groaned. "Go away, Terry," he mumbled.

"It's Christmas, Harry! We've got presents to open! I'm going downstairs now – if you're not down in five, I'll come up and drag you down!" The dorm room door slammed open and shut.

Harry sighed, tumbling out of bed, throwing the clothes he had worn the day before on, looking around and spotting his hoodie splayed over his trunk – but as he picked it up, a myriad of cards spilled out, tumbling to the floor. Eyes wide, he dropped the hoodie and bent over, shocked to find them all face up in the disorganized pile – except one. He reached down to pick the one hidden card up, holding it in front of him, taking in a sharp breath when he saw which of the Major Arcana it was: Death.

Taking a deep breath, he swiftly gathered up all the cards, throwing his hoodie on, walking quickly across the room toward the door; but then he stopped, for he thought that, in the corner of his eye, he had seen something _move _in the mirror on the far wall of the dorm, something besides him. Biting his lip and holding his breath, Harry turned back toward the mirror, shocked by what he found.

Standing behind him, in the mirror, was the image of a tall, thin elderly man; the man had a long nose and was gaunt, almost skeletal, yet impossibly regal, with an almost amused look in his dark eyes. He was dressed in a tidy black suit, long dark hair only peppered with grey sleeked back smoothly. Harry tried to move, tried to cry out or breathe, but found that he could not – he could only watch as the man placed an intangible hand on his shoulder, raising the other, revealing a dark crimson coloured stone. The man closed his fingers around the stone, clenching his fist, and then opening them, letting a blood-red dust waft through them, disappearing into the air. As the man looked pointedly at Harry through the mirror, Harry suddenly found that he could move again, and panting desperately, spun around, but found no one there.

Frantically, Harry darted over to the chest beside his bed, hissing the password and immediately pulling Jean's portrait out.

"Hey brat, Merry –"

"Jean, Jean, I think I'm going crazy! You've got to help me!" Harry whispered furiously.

"Woah! Calm down kid, that's right, take a deep breath. Now what's this about?"

"I'm seeing things, Jean – I'm seeing people in the mirror! And not just any people, scary old men with super strength!"

"You – wait, what? Super strength? Never mind…Harry, don't you remember? There's a kind of divination you can perform through mirrors and windows and stuff – scrying. You know, what you've been practicing in the crystal ball; it can be used for clairvoyance, too. Someone might be trying to contact you, or you accidentally contacted them…"

"But Jean, this was different – I couldn't move! I couldn't even breathe! He just looked at me, and suddenly I couldn't do anything! Do you know how long it's been, Jean? How long it's been since I felt helpless like that? Not bloody long enough! I haven't been scared in years, Jean, but I'm terrified right now…"

Jean looked alarmed at that. "It must have been someone powerful…did you see anything else? Anything to indicate who it was?"

"No! He didn't say anything, he…oh no, wait, I…just before, my Tarot cards spilled on the ground."

"And?"

"There was only one faced down – Death."

Jean whitened – Harry didn't even know portraits could pale – and he swallowed. "Besides look at you, what did…he do?"

"I…he…there was a red stone in his hand, and he – he just destroyed it."

"Wait, you don't mean…hey, weren't you researching some special stone last night? The, er…"

"Philosopher's Stone. A legendary alchemical substance that…"

"Yeah, can create gold from anything and can make eternal life in a bottle, gotcha."

"You don't think he wants me to…destroy it…do you?"

"I'd say it's likely –"

Suddenly, three loud knocks sounded on the door, Terry's voice crying, "It's been five minutes, I'm coming in now!"

Harry hurriedly stuffed the portrait and the cards in the chest, standing up to greet Terry, who just burst through the door.

He frowned. "What're you doing?"

Harry shrugged. "Admiring your face."

Terry scowled and grabbed his hand. "Come one, we've got presents, both of us!"

With wide eyes, Harry let Terry drag him down into the empty Ravenclaw common room, sitting him down in front of the humbly but tastefully decorated Christmas tree near the hearth.

"I sorted them while you were upstairs," Terry said, shoving a small pile toward Harry, "Happy Christmas, Harry!"

Harry blinked, his face blank, before a happy smile formed on his face, and he looked over at his friend, "Happy Christmas, Terry."

Both boys immediately went for the gifts on top, tearing the packaging open.

Terry spoke first. "Aw! You actually got me something!" He held up the book. "_1001 Non-Fatal Curses and Hexes_! This is great, Harry! Now we can practice together, yeah?"

Harry looked up from his new book, _Crafting the Invisible: the Art of Spell Weaving_, smiling; it had taken some time to decide on a good book to order from Flourish and Blotts - he figured that since Terry would be spending his holidays with him, it was only fair that he bought him a gift. "Of course, we just need to find a place where we can duel without getting caught. I know a lot of the counter-curses, so it should be pretty safe. Thanks for this, by the way, it looks brilliant. I might have to read it a few times to get the gist though…"

"What about your other package? You got another one, you know."

Harry blinked and looked down at the second wrapped package, as Terry went on to open the things from his parents.

The wrapping was simple and inconspicuous, and on top, Harry found a note that said:

'_Your father left this in my possession before he died.  
It is time it was returned to you.  
Use it well._

_A Very Happy Christmas to you.'_

Harry's heart jumped into his mouth – his father? Whatever was in the package belonged to his father? Hands shaking slightly, he tore open the packaging, finding a folded length of shimmering, smooth material in it. Harry drew the material out, running his hands through it slowly, musingly, until…

"What on earth…?"

Terry looked up from his new robe from his parents, eyes wide. "Blimey! That's an invisibility cloak! Go on, try it on!"

Harry stood up, wrapping the cloak around him and watching with amusement as his lower body disappeared. "Brilliant," he whispered.

"It is. Who's it from?"

Harry shook his head. "There was no name on the note – it only said that this used to belong to my father."

Terry's eyebrows rose. "That's quite the heirloom – invisibility cloaks are extremely rare!"

"Well, yes, imagine if everyone had one – a whole bunch of invisible people, bumping into each other all the time…"

Terry laughed, reaching over to brush his fingers against the soft material of the cloak, flipping it over to look at the inside. "It's gorgeous, though – well made, and it looks old, too – which is a surprise, because usually they don't last long."

Harry grinned. "We'll be able to put this to good use, for sure."

"Oh yes."

"In fact, it'd be perfect for sneaking into the restricted section."

"Oh yeah! But let's wait until Michael gets back..."

"Of course. He'd be pissed if we went off without him."

Terry paused in thought. "But you should put it in that charmed trunk of yours – it's real valuable, you wouldn't want it to get stolen or lost."

Harry nodded. "I'll put it up there now, and then we can be off to breakfast."

"Right, don't take too long! I'm starving!"

Harry ran back up to the dorm, hissing the password to his trunk and throwing the cloak in. On his way out, he dared to glance in the mirror, relieved to see nothing as he went back down to meet Terry.

Upon entering the Great Hall, the two boys heard their names being called,

"Oi, Potter, Boot, come sit with us!" It was the Weasley twins, who, along with their two brothers, were the only Gryffindors left in the school – all of them were wearing fuzzy jumpers with the first letters of their names knitted on. Only Percy seemed to react to how itchy they looked, constantly tugging on his.

As the two Ravenclaws sat down at the Gryffindor table, Harry remarked curiously. "George, why are you wearing Fred's jumper? And Fred, why are you wearing George's jumper?"

Both of the twins gaped at him, asking simultaneously, "How did you know who's who?"

Percy and Ron also looked surprised – whether it was because they had been fooled as well, or that they were surprised Harry had not been fooled, or both, Harry didn't know.

Meanwhile, he shrugged. "I'm a Ravenclaw. I'm just awesome like that."

The twins looked at each other and grinned darkly,

"You better watch out, mate," Fred began.

"'Cause we'll figure out your secret eventually," continued George.

"And then –"

"We'll fix it -"

"And no one will be able to tell us apart –"

"Ever again."

"I can see how that would be useful," Harry smirked, "I've always wanted an evil twin…"

Terry cleared his throat slightly. "If you had a twin, wouldn't _you_ be the evil one?"

Harry titled his head thoughtfully. "I suppose I would…"

"Indeed," Percy sniffed disapprovingly, "Professor McGonagall often comments on your disruptive behaviour in class."

Harry smiled sweetly. "That's only because she secretly loves me and wishes she could adopt me."

Ron started choking on his pumpkin juice.

"What? I'm a lovable guy."

Terry patted him on the arm. "Of course you are. All hugs, loves, and kisses, you are."

Harry scowled at him. "And you're a git."

"Hey!"

"Now, now boys," George interrupted.

"Don't fight," Fred continued, and they both finished together, "Save it for later."

Ron perked up at that. "Yeah, we're going to have another snow ball war later! You should both come!"

Terry fixed Harry with an intense stare.

Harry smirked. "You sure? That's awfully brave of you. Or maybe stupid. But then again, you are Gryffindors…"

* * *

In the end, Team Godzilla (Harry and Fred), had dominated the Hogwarts courtyard theatre of the Second Snowball War. As per their win, Harry and Fred both demanded to be called 'my Lord,' or 'Your Snowballiness' for the rest of the day (hexing anyone who didn't pay proper homage), while chanting 'We Will Rock You,' Harry's favourite Queen song which he had happily taught to Fred, down the Hogwarts corridors. It was silently agreed among the others that Harry and Fred should be kept apart for all future events involving competitiveness.

After Christmas Day, Harry and Terry had taken to practicing their new curses and hexes from their books in the empty common room. As it turned out, Harry had very good aim, and was quite creative and ingenious in a duel – ironically, Terry, who was renowned among the other Ravenclaws for his short attention span, showed a talent for learning curses related to warding and security spells. Together, they thought, they made an excellent team.

Meanwhile, Harry was looking forward to when all the other students would return – though he enjoyed having the entire castle to him and Terry, he was missing the excitement and ordinary chaos that the bustling student body brought with it. The silence was also beginning to disturb him – when he woke from his dreams at night, he missed the chorus of breaths and snores that came from the other beds. His only comfort was that he had not seen the mysterious man in the mirror since Christmas Day. The thought of Death visiting him in his dorm room was a disconcerting one, and in an attempt to avoid all future visits, he promised himself every night that he would find a way to steal the Philosopher's Stone and destroy it.

Little did he know, the night before his classmates would return, that a pale man with a gaunt face watched him from the mirror as he slept, the man's dark eyes alight with anticipation and amusement.

"You really are my favourite."

* * *

Thoughts? Review!


	11. Of Exorcisms and Eggs

**Disclaimer:** Don't own this, don't own that, don't own nothing.

**AN:** Miserere mei, my Latin's a bit rusty, and I was only ever educated in ecclesiastical Latin, so the Latin blurb in this chapter - riddled with grammatical errors.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Of Exorcisms and Eggs**

"Psst! Michael! Over here!"

Neither Harry nor Michael were where they were supposed to be – at midnight, all students were supposed to be snuggled in their dorms, drifting off into slumber, but at the moment, the two mischievous Ravenclaws were in the Restricted Section, looking through the cluttered, dusty shelves for books on spirit exorcisms. Terry had remained in the Ravenclaw common room on standby, ready to make up a valid excuse for their absence should need arise, whilst the other two members of the Brotherhood of Binns Exorcists, Harry and Michael, had sneaked off under the cover of Harry's invisibility cloak, taking great pleasure in walking right past a skulking, suspicious looking Filch without being noticed. They had even stuck their tongues out at the disgruntled squib for good measure.

Dropping his own text, Michael crawled over, looking over Harry's shoulder. Harry flipped the cover over for Michael to see – _Propter Animas_ – and then showed him to the chapter he had found on exorcisms.

He pointed to the forty-seventh page, at a short paragraph and below it a lengthy Latin soliloquy.

Michael gaped at the page. "_All _of that? We have to memorize the whole two pages?"

Harry scowled, "It's not that long, and it'll be split in three, anyway – all we have to do is point our wands at Binns while he's lecturing, whisper our parts in the exorcism, and poof! Binns is gone. And the best part," he tapped the paragraph at the top of the page, "It isn't traceable like the other exorcism I found, which only requires one caster – it won't even show up with a Prior Incantato spell, so nothing short of veritaserum could incriminate us." Harry smirked. "It's perfect. Don't you think?"

Michael's eyes were wide. "It is…I wonder what the theory behind it is?"

Harry shrugged. "It's the right sort for human spirits, but that's all I know – Hermione and I managed to figure out the key Latin phrases in different sorts of spiritual texts."

"How'd you get _her _to help without tattling?"

"Well I obviously didn't tell her what it was for."

"Right. But what's the actual working theory behind the spell?"

"No time to figure it out – let's copy the incantation down and get out of here, before Filch finds us."

The two boys copied the spell down quickly in Harry's notebook and shoved the old library book back onto the shelf, creeping out of the Restriction Section and making the journey back up to Ravenclaw Tower undetected under Harry's cloak.

Terry looked up from the place he had been dozing off in front of the hearth when they climbed through the portrait hole, removing the invisibility cloak.

"You got the spell?" he asked excitedly, rising to his feet.

Harry nodded, pulling the notebook he had copied the spell into out of his robe pocket. He opened it to the correct page and handed it to Terry, as the three of them made their way up the stairs to their dorm.

Terry gaped at the page. "It's so long!"

Michael rolled his eyes. "That's what I said, but Harry says we only have to say one part each."

Terry mulled that over briefly, biting his lip and screwing up his face in deep thought. "Oh, that's not so bad, then." He handed the notebook back to Harry, who tore the page out and ripped it into three, handing Michael and Terry a piece each.

"Have this memorized by history class tomorrow morning," he whispered as they entered the dorm, "Twenty minutes into class, I'll say my part, and I'll turn the page in my history book when I'm finished. When I do that, Michael can say his part, and do the same, and Terry, you can go last, agreed?"

They nodded determinedly, muttering a quick good night and heading off to their beds, careful to be quiet lest they wake their other dorm mates.

Harry hopped into his own bed, immediately closing his curtain and casting a quick _muffliato_, taking out Jean's portrait out from underneath his pillow.

"Jean! I found an exorcism!" he exclaimed excitedly.

The portrait raised an eyebrow. "Really? One you can use in class?"

"Yeah, there's no wand movements, and the incantation can be whispered – it only requires three casters, too."

Jean grinned. "Well, well, your little operation's really shaping up, isn't it?"

Harry nodded eagerly. "By next year, we'll have a brand new teacher, one that's really alive, and can actually teach…but…"

"What?"

Harry frowned. "I read part of the introduction to the book it was in, and based on my research with Hermione as well, a bound spirit can be affected by the area it is bound in – just like a soul is very much affected by its vessel, according to some theorists – and since Binns as bound to Hogwarts, which is heavily warded…"

"You think that an exorcism, which is based on invocation and ultimately works by enchanting the spirit into letting go and moving on, will be insufficient within the Hogwarts warding."

Harry nodded. "But exorcisms are the only spells wizards have that deal with spirits besides actual necromancy, so I don't know what else could work…unless…"

Jean chuckled, "What could you possibly be thinking up now?"

"There's only one other spell that directly deals with souls, also with the purpose of detaching the soul from the body – the Killing Curse."

Jean sobered immediately. "Now, Harry, don't even think of that."

"But why, Jean? I mean, it's not like I'd actually be killing anyone if I shot it at Binns, so I wouldn't be murdering anyone, and it might not even work…"

Jean shook his head. "Why do you think the Killing Curse was made unforgivable in 1717, Harry?"

"Well, it can't be blocked, so it's not exactly fair in a duel…"

Jean rolled his eyes. "Do you think the Ministry of Magic was only concerned about death tolls within tournaments? No. After all, the Killing Curse _appears_ to be the most humane methods of execution wizards have come up with – it doesn't even leave a mark on the body; victims look perfectly healthy, except, you know, that they're _dead_. No, it's because of the nature of the curse, Harry."

Harry squinted. "The nature of the curse? What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Jean scowled. "What happened to all that research you did? Did it somehow leak out of your brain or something?"

Harry only blinked.

"Damn, you're such an idiot sometimes, brat – what does the Killing Curse _do_?"

Harry glared. "It rips the soul from the body."

"Exactly! The soul!" Jean looked at him pointedly. "It's soul magic, Harry – crude, rough, unexact, intent-based soul magic, but soul magic nonetheless."

Harry's eyes widened.

"Killing Curse messes with the soul, Harry – in a sloppy, forceful way. And believe me, messing with souls is _not _something you want to do, especially without knowing _exactly _what you're doing; it's risky, unbelievably cruel to the victim, but moreover, it taints the soul of a caster, mangling it beyond repair. The Killing Curse requires a ridiculous amount magical power and control and the sort of hatred that changes a person's soul – it's not only Dark Arts, Harry, it's pure evil."

Harry took a deep breath and nodded shakily. "So, no Killing Curse then."

"Right, no Killing Curse."

Harry nodded, more surely this time, and then yawned tiredly.

"Anyway, you been feeling alright lately?"

Harry nodded carelessly. "Haven't had any of those creepy dreams since Christmas break – been sleeping much better."

"And your headaches?"

"Still only in Defence Against the Dark Arts class…you really think it has something to do with Professor Quirrell?"

Jean shrugged. "I don't know much about curse scars…my current theory is that it might burn in the presence of other things that have been touched by similar evil – being the defence teacher, Quirrell must have some experience dealing with the dark arts…perhaps they left a mark on him, too, and you're just sensing that?"

"That's a terrible theory, Jean, it's all speculation and based on circumstantial evidence."

Jean scowled at him. "Oh yeah? Well then, let's hear yours, oh great one!"

Harry sniffed. "I'm withholding my judgement until further evidence arises. Besides, I don't want to be a bloody evil detector for the rest of my life! It'd be sort of depressing…"

Jean laughed. "On a less depressing note, then, how goes the plan to get past Fluffy?"

Harry scowled. "I've found nothing in the library – Cerberi are extremely rare, and people tend to stay away from them. I've given up on research, I'll have to rely on guess work, I suppose…."

"Guess work?" Jean exclaimed incredulously, "You're a lot of things, brat, but I never thought you to be suicidal!"

Harry glowered at the portrait. "Well you think of something, then! It's not like I _want_ to become hell-puppy chow! But honestly, I'm more scared of Death than Fluffy the hellhound!"

Jean frowned. "We're still not sure it was _Death _that contacted you…"

"I'm pretty bloody sure, Jean – Apollo feels different, and has been ignoring me lately, bless his stone-cold heart, and the Fates are female. And Jean, you didn't see him, or feel it – _everything_ froze, like time went dead for a moment. It was terrifying – I'm still scared to look in a mirror for too long."

Jean grimaced. "Jeez, coz, what is it with you attracting the big scaries?"

Harry sighed. "Bad luck Jean, pure bad luck…"

* * *

The next day, Harry barely ate anything at breakfast – the anticipation for the events he would initiate in history class was too great. He vaguely noticed that Michael and Terry also looked quite excited, as they sat quietly on the other side of the table, playing with their bacon and eggs. The other first years seemed to notice, and while Padma, Sue, and Stephen didn't seem to care, and Lisa was oblivious, Anthony, Kevin, and Mandy glared at them suspiciously in between bites of their breakfast, the intensity only broken when Hermione and Neville sat down beside Harry, as had become a habit of theirs since after Christmas holidays.

"What are you so happy about?" Hermione asked primly.

Harry blinked, confused by her put-off tone. "What's wrong?"

Hermione scowled. "You weren't at study group on Wednesday. Michael wasn't, either."

Harry nodded, suddenly understanding. Halfway through the spring semester, Hermione, with his assistance, had started a study group with several first and second years from all the houses. She and Harry, particularly, had spent quite a bit of time studying together. But Harry and Michael, who regularly attended, had the previous Wednesday skipped out to plan their secret expedition to the restricted section.

"I wanted to work on our project!" Hermione complained.

Terry frowned. "What project? I didn't think we had anything to hand in…"

Harry shook his head. "No, we're trying to find a way to get muggle devices to work inside Hogwarts, with the use of charms – it's still very much in the research stage, though –"

"But they've already got _pages _of notes!" Neville said, wide eyed, "It's pretty amazing, actually. Even Professor Flitwick was impressed when they showed him their ideas."

Hermione blushed. "Oh, Neville, it's not that great…we haven't even decided what charms to use yet….there's so many possibilities!"

"Not really," Harry groused, "Wizards have barely any spells related to electricity or magnetism – it's like spell crafting stopped after the invention of the light bulb!"

Hermione slapped his arm. "It's not _that_ bad, honestly! You just don't look hard enough – you leaf through a book and toss it away when you don't like the writing style or the way the table of contents is organized or something silly like that!"

Harry sniffed. "Writing style is very important to the reader's comprehension of the work. If the author didn't put any work into making his books readable, then he obviously didn't have anything important to say."

"_Or _he was trying to weed out all the superficial idiots!"

"Are you calling me an idiot?"

"What, just like you called me one the other day?" Hermione sneered.

"I didn't! I said you were closed minded!"

"Same thing!"

"That's not true!" Harry snapped.

"Yes it –"

They were interrupted by the sound of Neville and Terry laughing. Michael and Anthony seemed barely able to hold in their laughter as well. They glared at the four snickering students, perplexed.

"Honestly, you two," Neville giggled, "This is why Madame Pince tossed you out of the library the other day – because you get in these spats every time you do research together!"

"You're like an old married couple!" Terry laughed, ignoring the twin glowers sent his way.

Michael smirked. "Yeah, they go at it every week."

Terry looked over at him. "Yeah? Maybe I should start coming to this study group..."

"You should," Hermione interjected, "Anthony comes, so does Padma and her sister Pavarti. Cho Chang comes, so does Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot."

"Don't forget me…" Neville mumbled.

"Of course not, Neville!" Hermione exclaimed, "Neville sometimes tutors us all in Herbology, he's really quite good – he's already reading the third year texts."

Neville blushed.

"Really?" Harry asked, turning to him, "Never told me that. Found any cool man-eating plants in there yet?"

Neville's blush disappeared and he perked up. "Yes, actually. There's one called a Dragon Fern, that actually needs the calcium from an animal's or human's body to survive. They grow in Mongolia. I was also reading about Devil's Snare the other day – it was once used for assassination."

Harry's eyes widened. "And it's not a poison?"

Neville shook his head. "It's semi-sentient, and will suffocate anything it catches – the only way to repel it is sunlight."

Harry filed that away mentally. "Remind me to come to you, Neville, if I'm ever trying to kill someone."

Neville grimaced, squeaking when Hermione slapped them both.

"Enough! You two! This is the _breakfast_ table!"

"Yeah," Terry added, "I'm starting to think you poisoned the food."

"Honestly," Harry said pompously, "I have more tact than that."

"Do you?"

"Well," Anthony spoke up pointedly, "If he _was _poisoning the food, that would explain his conspiratorial anxiety, but not yours and Michael's."

"_Conspiratorial anxiety_?" Terry repeated. "What's that even mean?"

"It means that I know you three are planning something. And you had better not be planning something that will lose us house points."

Harry grinned cheekily. "I won't tell if you won't."

Anthony only groaned, hitting his head on the table.

* * *

The history classroom filled up quickly in the last minute before class started, as usual, Binns's ghost drifting in a moment later, starting to drone on in his dull, grating voice about the Goblin Wars.

Harry watched with satisfaction as Stephen, who sat beside him, started to nod, finally falling to sleep only fifteen minutes after class had started. Once he was sure Stephen was fast asleep, as the boy started to mumble incoherently about quidditch and pumpkin juice, Harry leaned over on his desk, supporting his head with one arm, slipping his wand into the sleeve of the other. Pointing it at Binns, and tracing the ghosts motion as it slowly paced back and forth, he began to chant quietly,

"Anima Invoco,  
Anima obligatus Invoco,  
Anima, huc venis,  
Verba mea percipite…"

Doing his very best to not stumble over the Latin, Harry finished the next two paragraphs quietly, causally sitting back in his chair and turning the page in his history textbook. He glanced over to Michael, who met his eye, placed his hand on his desk, and began to move his lips.

Harry leaned back, keeping his eyes on Binns, only looking over at Terry when he heard Michael's page turn. A grimace was marring Terry's face as he clearly over-pronounced the Latin, getting him strange looks from Anthony a few seats over. Nevertheless, he managed to get through his three paragraphs in only a few minutes. Harry leaned forward, as, a few moments later, Binns's figure began to shimmer, and then, glow quite brightly; cracks appeared in his form, and it looked as though he was shattering, and would fall apart – until the walls of the classroom began to glow as well. A myriad of webbed tendrils climbed out of the wall, shooting out and seizing Binns, who had begun to stutter through his lecture, and with one bright flash, the cracks were gone, and Binns went on, lecturing as though nothing had happened.

Harry collapsed back in his chair, a horrified expression on his face – for just once in his life, he wanted to be wrong, he wanted the exorcism to work despite what the rational side of his brain had told him. But no, the Fates were quite happy to screw him over, again. Damn Hogwarts wards!

After class had ended, Michael and Terry immediately made their way over to him, looking quite perplexed.

"What went wrong?" Michael asked, looking quite put out.

"It wasn't me, I swear!" Terry hissed furiously.

Harry gritted his teeth, not at all in the mood to talk about it. "Bloody castle wards."

Terry and Michael, however, seemed to understand exactly what the statement meant, as they eyes widened and they both groaned in disappointment.

Harry was silent all through Charms class, getting concerned looks from the other Ravenclaws and even Professor Flitwick – Harry was often very vocal in Charms class, as his Head of House seemed to be the only teacher who appreciated what he had to say, no matter how inappropriate it was. Nonetheless, Harry continued to sulk throughout the whole class, and then through lunch also, stabbing his potatoes and beans viciously, barely listening in as Michael and Terry desperately tried to convince Anthony that the incident during history class had absolutely nothing to do with them.

After lunch was Potions with the Hufflepuffs – even Professor Snape raised an eyebrow at Harry's sombre mood, and even when he smirked amusedly at Harry's dark glance his way, Harry was too depressed to bring himself to care.

About a half-hour into class, Professor Snape had begun his first rant, telling poor Hannah Abbot off for nearly adding some improperly chopped holly berries to her potion. Halfway through his angry spiel, he glanced in Harry's direction.

"Potter!" he snapped, shocking every student but Harry, "What would have happened had I not prevented Abbot from dropping these…lumps into her potion?"

Harry sighed tiredly, not looking up from his work. "A violent reaction would have ensued, causing the potion to bubble up, possibly into her face."

"And what would have happened had the potion hit her face, Potter?" the professor continued nastily.

"The potion is quite corrosive, at this stage," Harry said blandly, "So worst case scenario, it would have burned through her epidermis, reacted with the enzymes in her living cells underneath, causing them to turn on themselves and attack each other – in short, her face would eat itself."

The entire class looked quite pale, horror clearly shimmering in their eyes, as Hannah Abbot gasped and fainted in her seat.

"Thank you, Potter, for that succinct, descriptive explanation," the professor smirked, then glanced over at poor Hannah, who was still out cold. "Macmillan! Take Abbot to the infirmary, before she breaks her neck, sitting like that!"

The poor blonde Hufflepuff jumped, face turning bright red, picking Hannah up and scurrying out of the Potions classroom as quickly as he could.

The rest of the class went smoothly; it ended quickly, with all of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws casting Harry uneasy glances as he stalked out of the classroom glumly.

By the time they had made it to the Great Hall for dinner, each of the first year Ravenclaws had drastically paled, and would sneak a glance at Harry so often, as though they were waiting for him to blow up in some terrible, gruesome way that would most likely take them with him. None of them dared to utter a word, until Terry, completely fed up, sighed and fixed Harry with his best reprimanding glare.

"Come on, mate, cheer up! It's not the end of the world, you know!"

Everyone but Michael looked quite confused at the statement, seeing as they had no clue as to what had instigated Harry's dour mood, but decided not to comment.

Harry just continued to violently stab his steak.

"I mean, if you keep trying to murder that piece of steak like it's a living thing, people will start to think you've finally cracked!"

At that moment, Harry dropped his fork, unmoving as it clattered to his plate. "Cracked…" he whispered in awe, "Like…white, round, eggs…"

Terry turned frantically to Michael, who also looked quite concerned. "Oh Merlin, he's finally gone off the deep end, hasn't he?"

Suddenly, Harry snapped to attention, causing the other first years to jump. He turned to Penelope. "Hey, Penelope, where are the Hogwarts kitchens located?"

The blonde prefect glanced over to him. "The kitchens? Right underneath the Great Hall, not far from the Hufflepuff common room, Harry."

"Thanks," Harry said, nodding thoughtfully.

"Harry," said Anthony warningly, "You're not planning anything, are you?"

Harry shrugged, chewing on his steak with a musing expression on his face. "Just a little revenge…on Hogwarts."

* * *

The next morning, the other first years were utterly bewildered when they saw Harry carrying a blue and purple polka-dotted umbrella to breakfast.

"Where did you get that?" Lisa asked him as they entered the Great Hall.

Harry glanced over at her. "I transfigured it out of my pillow."

She frowned at him. "Why's it blue and purple?"

Padma interrupted. "Never mind that, why've you got an umbrella at all?"

Harry shrugged. "You never know when it might rain."

"Inside?"

"Stranger things have happened."

The first years sat down at the Ravenclaw table, all keeping a wary distance from Harry, except Kevin, who for some reason didn't seem to think it that strange that Harry apparently expected it to start raining in the Great Hall any moment.

"I told you," Terry whispered to Michael and Anthony, "He's lost his marbles."

The other two nodded, looking rather uneasy when Harry looked up from his marmalade-covered sausages and smiled at them.

"Say, Kevin," Harry said, looking at the boy beside him, "What's the time? Exactly."

Kevin looked down at his watch. "Fourteen past eight and twenty two seconds."

Harry nodded. "Shove over a bit, will you." When Kevin did so, he picked up the umbrella from where it lay beside him, opening it and twirling it daintily as he fixed it over his head. "Five, four, three, two…"

Within moments, the entire student body and staff were fleeing from the Great Hall, covered with raw eggs and broken eggshells, bar one Harry James Potter, who was sitting happily under his umbrella, sipping his tea, humming an incoherent medley of 'It's Raining, It's Pouring' and 'Humpty Dumpty' with a pleased smile on his face.

* * *

That day would therefrom be known as the day of the Mass Hogwarts Egging.

* * *

If happy moments are chocolate chip cookies, then reviews are a very nice flavour of chocolate chips.

-words of wisdom by me :)


	12. Of Forests and Forbidden Places

**Disclaimer:** I own this thing, it's really awesome: it's called…an imagination!

**AN:** 1. Thank you so much, everyone who reads, reviews, favourites, or just enjoys! Harry and I are very pleased that you are amused with us. Hope you enjoy this chapter – it was very fun to write.  
2. I know this is very random indeed, but I wanted to say, that some of the people who have reviewed/favourited, you have very amusing screen names/pennames. Like, very, very clever or cute ones. So, if you think you have a rather neat screen name, cheers!

* * *

**Chapter 12: Of Forests and Forbidden Places**

When asked how, exactly, Harry had been able to convince the house elves in the Hogwarts kitchens to aide him in his 'Grand Egg Storm Vengeance Scheme,' as he had dubbed it, he simply replied,

"I asked them very, very nicely. And thanked them profusely."

Apparently, the underappreciated Hogwarts house elves had been eager to assist a student who finally gave them the kind words and gratitude they deserved.

When asked why he did it, Harry replied quite smugly,

"I wanted revenge on Hogwarts, but it's sort of hard to get revenge on a pile of bricks, so I settled for getting revenge on everyone in it. I'd say it worked quite well."

Professor Flitwick had shaken his head and left it at that – he found Harry amusing, to be sure, but he wasn't about to make guesses on the intricate inner workings of whatever convoluted, labyrinthine mess made up his psyche. So he assigned Harry detention that night with some other students and had sternly warned him against further pranking, and that was all.

And that was how Harry found himself standing in the entrance hall at eleven o' clock, beside Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, and Draco Malfoy.

Harry quirked an eyebrow at the unlikely quartet. "Now," he said curiously, "I'd say it's quite obvious why _I'm _here, but what did you four do?"

Hermione glared at him. "Yes, quite obvious why you're here indeed! What were you thinking, dropping eggs on everyone like that!"

Harry shrugged. "I wanted revenge on Hogwarts."

The other four first years looked at him as though he had lost his head.

"Egging is a classic way wreak vengeance. Never mind that, though," Harry said, "I asked, why are _you _four here."

Draco sniffed primly. "_I _shouldn't even be here – I was turning these three in…for smuggling a _dragon_ off school grounds – but Professor McGonagall didn't even believe me, and assigned me detention with the rest of these stupid Gryffindors for being out of bed late!"

Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing, and turned to the three Gryffindors, amused. "A dragon? Really? Well done! That's rather brilliant, actually."

Hermione scowled at him. "It's not like we were _trying _to get in trouble, unlike someone I know." She glared at Harry pointedly. "Hagrid had a dragon egg, we were there when it hatched. Hagrid wanted to keep it, but we had to get it out before it burned his hut down!"

"And my brother works with dragons in Romania," Ron piped up.

"We were just trying to help," Hermione said sadly, Neville nodding behind her.

Harry shrugged. "Still brilliant, I say."

Hermione huffed. "You _would _say that."

"Of course, because it's true! Isn't that right, Neville?"

Neville froze. "Er…"

At that moment, Filch appeared, lantern in hand, skulking down the stairs, stopping in front of the five first years. "Follow me," he said hoarsely, leading them outside. "I bet you'll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won't you, eh?" he cackled, leering at them. "Oh yes…hard work and pain are the best teachers if you ask me…It's just a pity they let the old punishments die out…hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, I've got the chains still in my office, keep 'em well oiled in case they're ever needed…"

"Or what about the stocks? Got a couple of those up in your office too?" Harry chirped sarcastically.

Filch grinned nastily, causing Harry to supress a grimace. "Oh yes, those too…been saving them just for you, boy."

Harry twitched. "We'll just have to exchange birthday presents then, won't we."

Filch leered at him a moment before turning away. "Right, off we go, and don't think of running off, now, it'll be worse for you if you do."

Filch led the five first years over the cold, dark fields of the Hogwarts grounds, the grass damp and cool from condensation, whipping about slightly in the light breeze. Led only by the faint light of Filch's lantern, the first years jogged along at a quick pace to keep up, poor Neville tripping up every so often, earning a scoff from Draco. Eventually, Harry recognized the lighted windows of Hagrid's hut up ahead, and as they neared it, a gruff shout sounded out,

"Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started."

Harry glanced over to the others – Draco looked horrified, but hope was blooming upon the three Gryffindors' faces.

Filch glanced back toward them as well, saying, "I suppose you think you'll be enjoying yourself with that oaf? Well think again, children – it's into the forest you're going and I'm much mistaken if you'll all come out in one piece."

Harry could hear poor Neville moaning, and Draco stopped short.

"The forest?" he said warily, "We can't go in there at night – there's all sorts of things in there – werewolves, I heard."

Neville squeaked and gripped the sleeve of Harry's robe, cringing when he saw the expectantly gleeful look on the Ravenclaw's face.

"That's your problem, isn't it?" commented Filch, voice cracking in his pleasured daze. "Should've thought of them werewolves before you got in trouble, shouldn't you've?"

By that time, Hagrid was striding toward them, a rather big, sloppy faced dog at its heel, and a crossbow and quiver of arrows in his arms.

"That's Fang," Neville whispered to Harry.

"Yeah, looks real fierce, that one," Harry said, rolling his eyes.

By that time, Hagrid had arrived in front of them. "Abou' time," he said, "I bin waitin' fer half an hour already. Alright there?"

"I shouldn't be too friendly to them, Hagrid," Filch warned coldly, "They're here to be punished, after all."

"That's why yer late, is it?" said Hagrid, frowning at Filch. "Bin lecturin' them, eh? 'Snot your place ter do that. Yeh've done yer bit, I'll take over from here."

"I'll be back at dawn," Filch said in turn, looking at the first years nastily as he added, "For what's left of them." He turned, stalking off toward the castle.

As soon as Filch was out of earshot, Draco piped up. "I'm not going in that forest." He glared when he heard Harry laughing at him.

"Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts," said Hagrid fiercely. "Yeh've done wrong an' now yeh've got ter pay fer it."

"But this is servant stuff, it's not for students to do! I thought we'd be copying lines or something, if my father knew I was doing this, he'd – "

"- tell yer that's how it is at Hogwarts," Hagrid growled, clearly annoyed. "Copyin' lines! What good's that ter anyone? Yeh'll do summat useful or yeh'll get out. If yeh think yer father'd rather you were expelled, then get back off ter the castle an' pack. Go on."

Draco gritted his teeth, glaring at the half-giant, only faltering when Harry slapped him on the arm.

"Oh, cheer up, Malfoy! We get to go in the Forbidden Forest, with permission! It's like a free pass! Imagine all the oogly boogly hairy scary things that go bump in the night we might meet! You know, I've always wondered what it'd be like to get eaten, maybe I'll find out tonight…" Harry said musingly.

Draco snapped his glare toward him. "Well you wouldn't be alive to consider it afterwards, now would you?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, if my record holds, even being eaten wouldn't kill me."

Draco, as well as the Gryffindors, looked quite green at the concept, but Hagrid, who seemed to have only heard the first part of the conversation, ruffled Harry's long unruly mop of black hair, ignoring the death glare Harry sent him.

"Tha's the spirit, Harry! Right then, now, listen carefully, all of yeh, 'cause it's dangerous what we're gonna do tonight, an' I don' want no one takin' risks. Follow me over here a moment."

He led them to a small dale at the edge of the forest, surrounded by only a few shrubs and tufts of grass. As he held his lamp up high, he pointed down a long, narrow, meandering dirt trail that disappeared far off into the shadowy, tangled mass of dark trees.

"Look there," Hagrid said, "See that stuff shinin' on the ground? Silvery stuff? That's unicorn blood."

Hermione and Draco sucked in a deep breath, and Harry frowned thoughtfully.

"There's a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by summat. This is the second time in a week. I found one dead last Wednesday. We're gonna try an' find the poor thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery."

"And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us first?" Draco said, panic tinting his voice.

Harry grinned. "Then we'll do it in just like we did in that troll on Halloween!"

"No need," Hagrid said, "There's nothin' that lives in the forest that'll hurt yeh if yer with me or Fang."

Harry pouted.

"An' keep ter the path. Right, now, we're gonna split inter two parties an' follow the trail in diff'rent directions."

"Is that really wise," Hermione said worriedly, "To split up?"

Neville nodded frantically.

Harry grinned. "You're not _scared _are you?"

Hermione scowled at him. "No, I said it wasn't wise."

"I'm scared!" Neville interjected. "I'm against splitting up too, just so you know."

Hagrid shook his head. "We're gonna have to. There's blood all over the place, it must've bin staggerin' around since last night at least.'

"I want Fang and Potter," Draco said quickly, looking at Fang's long teeth and Harry's wand which was, for some reason, already drawn.

Harry shrugged but nodded.

"All right, but I warn yeh, Fang's a coward," said Hagrid with a raised eyebrow. "So me, Ron, Neville, and Hermione'll go one way an' Draco, Harry, an' Fang'll go the other. Now, if any of us finds the unicorn, we'll send up green sparks, right? Get yer wands out an' practice now – that's it – an' if anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks, an' we'll all come an' find yeh – so, be careful – let's go."

Harry sighed and grabbed Draco's wrist, calling, "C'mon Fang, let's go hunt some half-dead unicorn."

The three of them went off down the left fork in the earthen trail, Harry leading the way, with Draco and Fang following close behind. The path was slender and rocky, winding about the gnarled trees and shrubs of the forest, glowing a ghostly white from the _lumos_ spells emanating from the two young wizards' wands. Every so often, a light, cool breeze would brush through the leaves and grass, causing Draco to shiver and Fang to whimper or growl – other than that, and the creaking of wood and the distant hints of nocturnal forest-dwelling creatures, the trek was silent.

It did not take long, however, for Harry to tire of the silence, and glancing over his shoulder, he called suddenly, startling both of his companions, "Come on, you two! Cheer up!"

Draco sneered at him. "What's there to be cheery about, Potter?"

Harry grinned. "We're in the forest, at night, on our own – we've got free reign of the whole place. And we're unicorn hunting! Well, half-dead unicorn hunting…but anyway, how novel is that!"

"You're bloody insane, you know that, Potter?"

"Who says?"

"Everyone!"

"Or," Harry drawled, "Maybe I'm the only sane one, and you're all mad."

Draco grimaced.

"You really need to cheer up, mate. I know! Let's sing!"

"Oh Merlin, please no…"

"_We come from the land of the ice and snow,  
From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow..."_

His song was cut short when Draco slapped a cold, clammy hand over his mouth.

"Shut it, Potter! Do you want whatever's killing those unicorns to find us? If it does, I'll bloody kill you!"

"Unless," Harry said, removing the hand from his mouth, "Before you can kill me, it catches you, tears out your entrails, and uses them for jelly to put on its toast."

Draco grimaced. "What sort of monster eats toast?"

"The sort that doesn't have the culinary skills to make bacon and eggs for breakfast."

"You know, I'm just going to stop talking to you now. Your reason seems to have vacated you at some point."

Harry nodded. "I believe I am still reeling from my recent defeat at the hands of Hogwarts castle."

Draco could only shake his head. "Just…stop talking."

They went on like that, silently, for a time, trekking on deeper into the forest, casting their gazes about looking for any sign of the unicorn, until Harry hissed, "Stop! I found something…"

"Potter, this is no time for –"

"Sh! I'm serious! Come here, look." He pointed between two trees, into a small clearing just beyond. A silvery puddle was strewn over the uneven forest turf leading to the shape of a dead unicorn – its pearly white hide still glimmered softly, its eyes closed in a pained expression; yet still, its face was graced by a strangely innocent, regal look.

Harry took a step closer, and another, not able to resist the desire to move closer and brush the mud and leaves from the beautiful creature's face – but he stopped short when he heard the noise of shivering leaves. He cast his gaze to the thicket just across the clearing, watching, wide-eyed and frozen, as a hooded figure crept out from within the shadows toward the unicorn. Stopping when it crouched before the fallen animal, it lowered its head over the wound in the unicorn's side, and began to lap up the silvery blood.

Before Harry could stop him, Draco let out a terrified scream and darted in the other direction, Fang following on his heels.

Muttering a dejected, "Damn it all," Harry drew his wand, but froze as the hooded figure raised its head staring straight at him, and a searing pain erupted in his head, similar to but stronger than the pain that burned in his scar whenever Professor Quirrell turned around in class. The pain burst forth from his scar, jolting down into his eyes and over his face, back down his neck and into his spine – and then, everything flashed black, and then bright green, and a plethora of images began to flash before his eyes, too fast for him to track…but he thought he recognized some of them…from the dreams he had suffered from during the holidays…

Suddenly, the figure rose up, and panic boiled up in Harry's chest. As the figure took a step toward him, through his pain, he managed to lift his arm and point his wand toward the figure. In his agonized state, he couldn't think of any spells, so he just bit his lip and concentrated – on how much he didn't want to die, on how much it hurt, on how much he wanted the hooded figure to just _leave _….

WHOOSH!

Harry was blown backwards, crying out as his back hit the tree behind him. Groaning, he opened his eyes, shocked to find the clearing – well, clear; free of any leaves, stray branches, or shrubs, as though a violent wind had swept through it. The hooded figure was nowhere to be seen.

Harry blinked. "Oops…_I _didn't do that, did I?"

"Yes you did, young wizard."

Harry spun around, cringing at the pain in his bruised back, finding behind him a huge creature, with the upper body of a man and the lower body of a steed – a centaur – its coat of a soft palomino.

"Are you alright?" the centaur asked.

"Er, yes, I'm fine, thanks. So…you wouldn't happen to know _what _I did, do you?"

The centaur looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "That was pure magic, Harry Potter, channelled through your wand. Your wand is made of holly, is it not?"

"…yes?" Harry really had no idea what that had to do with anything…

"Holly wood purifies – no darkness can exist within it, which is why your magic, young and untainted as it is, drove that foul being away."

"Yeah, about that…what was that?"

The centaur didn't answer, his bright blue eyes drifting toward the sky, then snapping back to Harry. "Your Sight is strong, Harry Potter, you must not let the many things you will See blind you."

Harry blinked. "Okay…"

"You had better get back to Hagrid. The forest is not safe at this time – especially for you. Can you ride? It will be quicker this way." He paused, noticing Harry's suspicious leer. "My name is Firenze," he added, lowering himself onto his front legs.

Harry recognized the gesture as a friendly one, and awkwardly climbed onto Firenze's back.

Suddenly, though, the sound of galloping came from the other side of the clearing. Two other centaurs burst through the trees, looking sweaty and worn.

"Firenze!" one of the other centaurs thundered, "What are you doing? You have a human on your back! Have you no shame? Are you a common mule?"

"Do you realize who this is, Bane?" said Firenze. "This is the Potter boy. The quicker he leaves this forest, the better."

Now Harry resented that comment – it made it sound like he was some sort of disease that they needed to get rid of.

"What have you been telling him?" the centaur, Bane growled. "Remember, Firenze, we are sworn not to set ourselves against the Heavens. Have we not read what is to come in the movements of the planets?"

The other centaur pawed at the ground nervously. "I'm sure Firenze thought he was acting for the best…"

Bane kicked his legs furiously. "For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs are concerned with what has been foretold! It is not our business to run around like donkeys after stray humans in our forest! We look after our own!"

"And what if the boy is one of our own?"

Harry frowned at that – he wasn't a centaur…but centaurs were magical creatures with Seeing abilities, if mythology was to be believed….

"But…he couldn't…."

Firenze glared at the other centaur. "He is. Don't you see? The stars and the planets sing to him this night. And I, as a servant of the heavens, will see to it that he is brought back to Hagrid safely." With that, Firenze bucked slightly and took off, leaving the other two centaurs behind.

"Wow," Harry said as they plunged through the trees, gripping Firenze's back tightly. "That was intense. What's their problem? And are you going to tell me what that creepy thing getting high on unicorn blood was?"

Firenze's gait slowed to a walk, but remained silent. The twain made their way through the trees without conversation, for a time, slowly clambering over the thick forest foliage, until Firenze suddenly stopped.

"Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is used for?"

"Uh…no? I've read through my potions book inside and out, and we never use unicorn blood for anything."

"That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn," said Firenze. "Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, would commit such a crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have slain something pure and defenseless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips. There are few magics that can taint a person so."

"Wait, how could a unicorn be defenseless, with those big pointy horns?" He shook his head, silently reprimanding himself for being so easily distracted. "When you say a cursed life – is it something so deep…that it touches the person's soul?"

Firenze looked at him, surprised.

"Like…the Killing Curse?"

"The Avada Kedavra curse, like drinking unicorn blood, is one of the few ways to put a taint on one's soul so deep that it is never washed away, and if it is strong enough, even Death will cast such a dark soul aside."

Harry's eyes widened. "What happens when Death casts your soul aside, though?"

Firenze shook his head and turned away. "Such things are not spoken of."

"Right – but I wonder who'd be so reckless, to be that desperate…? I mean, wouldn't it be better to just keel over and die?"

"It would be," Firenze agreed, "Unless all you need is to stay alive long enough to drink something else – something that will bring you back to full strength and power – something that will mean you never die, and Death will never deal with your soul. Mr. Potter, do you know what is hidden in the school at this very moment?"

"Of course I do. How do you?"

Firenze chuckled. "It would seem we walk in similar circles…"

"Harry! Harry, are you all right?"

It was Hermione, bounding toward him, Hagrid puffing along behind her.

Harry smirked. "Worried about me, were you?" he said, dismounting.

Hermione slapped him on the arm. "Of course I was!"

"Really? So you like me after all? You would be sad if some big bad monster ripped out my innards and used my bones for toothpicks, and then you found my bloodied head outside the forest in the morning?"

There were tears forming in Hermione's eyes, which she quickly wiped away, hitting him again. "Of course I would! You stupid, stupid boy!"

Harry smiled sheepishly. "I'd be sad if you got eaten too…sorry?"

Hermione sniffled. "You'd better be!"

Harry nodded, then looked up to Hagrid, who was leaning over, trying to catch his breath. "The unicorn's dead, Hagrid, already was when Malfoy and I found it."

"He told us," Hermione interrupted, a concerned look on his face, "He also said there was something terrible attacking you!"

"Er, it was nothing, really, got scared off when Firenze showed up." He glanced over his shoulder, to where the centaur had before stood, but found no sign of him.

* * *

"…and then we went back to the castle – I made it to Ravenclaw tower just as everyone was waking up, and fell to sleep – I was so bloody tired!" Harry whined at Jean's portrait.

It was nearly dinner time, the Saturday after his detention in the Forbidden Forest – he'd slept nearly the entire day; apparently, trekking through the forest all night along with that sudden burst of magic had taken more out of him than he had originally thought.

"Well you should be! That sounds like some pretty powerful magic you let loose…" mused Jean, "You should really be more careful – you'll end up draining yourself dry one day."

Harry paled. "That can happen?"

Jean snorted. "'Course it can – you didn't think you've got a bottomless bucket of mojo deep down somewhere, did you?"

"…well, no…"

"Everyone's got one magical core – different sizes, all of them – that replenishes itself by filtering in magic from the earth every so often. But if you use too much at once…you keel over and die."

"Lovely."

"Right. So this mysterious, hooded, Black Rider-like creature, you didn't happen to get a good look at the face, did you?"

"No Jean, I was too busy trying to stay conscious while something was splitting my head open," Harry snapped.

Jean held his hands up. "Fine, fine. No need to get snippy. I just wonder who it was…"

"The centaur seemed to think that whoever it was is trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone."

Jean quirked an eyebrow. "So…some creep who wants eternal life, then. It would explain why Death would want the stone destroyed – he doesn't like people trying to cheat him out of what's his."

Harry frowned. "But he's Death – why doesn't he just come down here, and like, zap whoever it is, instead of bothering me about it? It'd be easier for both of us."

"Because, Harry, Death doesn't exactly live around here – beings like Death and the Fates exist on something smart people like to call the transcendent plane – unlike the mortal plane, it's not spacio-temporal, it's a whole other level of existence; and I'd imagine Death wouldn't want to lower himself to walking on the mortal plan every time some mortal gets too damn proud for their own good…that'd be a pain in the ass, after all. So he gets us to do his dirty work for him."

Harry grimaced. "Bugger. So I'm not getting out of this?"

"Nope," Jean said, popping the 'p,' "But I wonder who our mysterious thief's identity is…"

"The headache I got in the forest…it was the same as the headaches I get in Defense Against the Dark Arts class…"

Jean laughed. "You think it's Quirrell? He hardly seems like the type!"

Harry shrugged. "Clark Kent didn't seem like the type to be Superman, either."

Jean grimaced. "Yeah, but…"

"It doesn't really matter," Harry said, "Personally, I think anyone as lame as Professor Quirrell has to be evil deep down, but it has nothing to do with me. I just need to find the stone and destroy it before the mystery thief does – and then Death won't bother me ever again, and I can stop being afraid of every bloody mirror in the castle."

Jean chuckled.

"It's not funny! Besides, I still need to figure out how to actually destroy the stone…"

"Oh that's easy," Jean said.

Harry looked at him skeptically.

"What? Don't look at me like that! I dabbled with a bit of alchemy back in the day…"

"_You?" _Harry asked.

"Oi! I can be smart, when I put my mind to it."

"_When _you put your mind to it…"

"_Anyway_," Jean said loudly, "As I was saying, the Philosopher's Stone is a delicate pseudo-element made by a careful fusion of all the other elements – in other words, it's extremely volatile. That's why it's so hard to make; the ratios have to be exact, or else the opposing elements will devour each other. It's like Anaximander's objection to Thales's metaphysic."

"So?"

"So," Jean drawled, "It wouldn't take much direct magical force to completely collapse the molecular structure of the stone, once you get past the hardened outer layer. In other words, a good strong _Reducto _should do it."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. It's that easy. Should be, anyway."

"_Jean…_" Harry warned.

"I'm pretty sure, alright! Jeez, have some faith."

Harry huffed indignantly.

"You always were a suspicious little bastard."

Harry stuck out his tongue, then sighed thoughtfully. "Well, I should get going now."

"Dinner?"

Harry shook his head. "Time to implement the first stage of my plan – get past Fluffy the hellhound."

"You found a way?"

Harry shook his head. "Nope. But I've got some ideas. I mean, it's still a dog, right?"

Jean sighed. "Just…don't end up as puppy chow, please?"

"Deal."

* * *

As Harry made his way down the stairs to the Hogwarts kitchens, he could hear the bustling chatter of the student body above in the Great Hall. Finding himself in front of the doors, he looked over his shoulder, and finding himself quite alone, he slipped in.

"Oh! Master Harry Potter sir! What can wes be helpin' yous with, sir?" exclaimed Tippy, one of the house elves that worked in the kitchen, upon seeing him. "Are wes a gonna be dropping more eggs on the Great Hall, sir?"

Harry smiled and shook his head, kneeling down and patting Tippy's head, laughing as she blushed. "No, Tippy, I was actually going to ask about some of your food stores…you wouldn't happen to have any steak or something lying around, would you?"

Tippy perked up. "Oh, yes, Dribby just went to the butcher yesterday! Tippy would be very, very pleased to give some steak to Harry Potter, sir! Hows would yous like it cooked?"

"No, it's not for me – what I need is a nice, raw, juicy steak, wrapped up nicely."

After Tippy had fetched the steak, Harry stealthily made his way up to the third floor corridor under the cover of his invisibility cloak, rushing down to the last door, where Fluffy was kept. Taking a deep breath, he muttered a quiet "_Alohomora_," and slipped into the room. Unwrapping the steak, he threw it on the floor, pointing his wand at it, and saying clearly, _"Engorgio!_"

* * *

Harry collapsed on his bed, his sleeve torn and speckled with blood.

Jean looked over to him. "How'd it go?"

"Apparently," Harry sighed, "I look much tastier than an enlarged steak. Stupid hellhound."

* * *

It was one week later, late one Saturday night, and Harry collapsed into his four poster bed, face bleeding.

"What'd you try this time?" Jean drawled.

Harry looked over at him. "Aren't dogs supposed to like bones, or something?"

* * *

Another week passed, and Harry found himself stumbling into his bed, wincing as his bruised back hit the bed frame.

"Unsuccessful?" Jean muttered sympathetically.

"Yeah, and now I have to explain to Lisa Turpin why her stuffed bear is enlarged and in twenty-three pieces."

* * *

Harry fell backwards onto his bed, hair mussed up with an odd mixture of blood and something brown and sticky.

Jean looked at him from inside the portrait with a raised eyebrow. "What the hell did you do this time?"

"I read somewhere that dogs like peanut butter."

* * *

It was once again Saturday, already June, and Harry once again collapsed onto his bed, groaning, coated with blood and fur.

Jean only winced.

"Remind me," Harry said wearily, "That I owe Mandy Brocklehurst a cat."

Jean couldn't help it, he laughed, and even Harry's zombie-like death glare couldn't stop him.

* * *

If you're happy and you know it click review!


	13. Of Exams and Expeditions

**Disclaimer:** Not mine – I didn't steal it. I'm innocent.

**AN:** Thanks everyone, for reading!

* * *

**Chapter 13: Of Exams and Expeditions**

"Harry?"

"Ha-a-arry?"

"Harry."

"Harry!"

Harry snapped awake, looking about frantically around him, eyes coming to rest on Neville's face, a mere few inches away from his. "Neville?" he asked groggily, wiping his eyes.

"Yeah, Hermione's about to start," Neville said with a raised eyebrow.

Harry glanced over at Hermione, who was standing at the head of the large table in the library that he had fallen asleep at, arms crossed and a put-off look on her face.

"One would think you haven't been sleeping, lately, Harry," she said accusingly.

Harry only shrugged.

"Well it's exam time!" she snapped, "The most important time of the year! If you don't sleep well, then you won't do well at your exams. And then the rest of your year will have been a complete waste of time!"

Harry shrugged again.

She sighed heavily, then looked up, glancing at Neville, Padma, Pavarti, Michael, Ernie, Hannah, and Anthony, and cleared her throat, then started, "Tomorrows the first day of exams – we've only got the rest of this afternoon to study now. Since March we've all studied together, and because of that I know you're all very capable – that being said, if any of you get less than an Exceeds Expectations on your final exam, I shall be _very _cross."

There were several audible gulps.

"Now," she continued, sitting down at the table and folding her hands, "Is there anything in particular any of you aren't very confident on?"

They were all silent a moment, glancing between each other, before Neville spoke up.

"I'm scared I'm going to forget the formula for the Forgetfulness Potion."

Harry snorted, but Hermione glared at him and then smiled at Neville, saying, "Great, well, then let's go over the formula…"

Harry cleared his throat, and Hermione turned to glare at him again, whilst the other study group members shifted in their seats.

"Do you have something to say?"

"Yeah, I do actually," Harry said thoughtfully, "Neville said he's _afraid _to forget, not that he already has. Right Neville?"

Neville nodded confusedly.

"So, instead of telling him the stuff he already knows, why not just, you know, make sure he remembers?"

The study group members immediately blanched – surprisingly, it was only Hermione who looked thoughtful.

"Harry," Padma began, trying to hide the horror she felt, "You're not suggesting that we help Neville cheat, are you?"

Harry blinked. "No! Of course not! He may be a Gryffindor, but that doesn't mean he's stupid enough to cheat on _Professor Snape's _exam. _I'm _talking about using a mnemonic device, or something like that."

The others looked confused, so Hermione explained, "A mnemonic device is a tool that you can use to remember something – it could be anything, really; a pattern in a string of numbers, the first letters of the words in a sentence, a catchy anagram, a visualization…"

Harry nodded. "And all we have to do is come up with one for the Forgetfulness Potion. It will help, and it's not cheating – it's just being clever."

The others looked quite eager at the prospect now.

"This could really come in handy for future exams," Anthony mused.

Harry nodded as Hermione pulled out a piece of parchment and retrieved her quill.

"Now," she said, "First you add 2 drops of water from the river Lethe, then you heat for 20 seconds, and you add 2 Valerian Sprigs, and you stir 3 times clockwise, wave your wand, leave it for 95 minutes, add 2 measures of standard ingredient, take 4 mistletoe berries, crushed to a medium fine powder and add 2 pinches of it into your cauldron, stir 5 times anti clockwise, and then wave your wand. Hmm...but what to do to help you remember…"

"You make up a story," Harry said.

Neville blinked. "How?"

"You're down at the river Lethe, and you wait for 20 seconds…" Harry began, and Hermione's eyes widened and she began to write furiously. "On the way back you find a huge field of Valerian, 2 miles long, and you have to travel 3 miles to get around it, clockwise. You wave as you leave it behind, and keep walking, for 95 minutes. Eventually you come across two bridges of a standard, normal design, and cross them, and find four girls standing on the other side, under mistletoe. You kiss them all, only to leave, crushing their hearts, and only smile at two. The rest of the path is 5 miles long, curved anti-clockwise, but you soon reach your house, and wave as you enter."

Hermione finished the last sentence and set her quill down, looking over the page.

Ernie frowned. "But that's longer than the actual instructions! How's it supposed to help him remember?"

Neville nodded.

"Two reasons," Harry said, "First, people remember stories better than lists – every day you remember what you've done, what your friends have told you, and what you've learnt in class, and you can recite it like a story, but you wouldn't be able to remember if someone just gave you a long list of everything done and heard in a day nearly as well. You can learn a story, and in two years remember it, but when people memorize lists, it's usually only for a few days. So it stands to reason that if Neville repeats the story over and over to himself, he should be able to memorize it. Second, when you take a test, your mind has to retrieve the information you memorize – Neville's afraid that the path to retrieve this information will be blocked by his nervousness. But now, he has _two_ paths to each piece of information, one that isn't actually potions-related at all – more chance of getting it right."

Everyone's eyes were wide.

"Wow!" Hannah exclaimed. "I should really use these more often…"

Harry nodded. "They can be very fun. The other day, I was telling Hermione about this one for memorizing the finer points of human physiology –"

Hermione slapped a hand over his mouth. "And it was positively awful! It was a list of ways to torture or murder someone!"

"But effective for memorizing body parts."

"That doesn't change the fact that it's awful! And can't be healthy!"

"What's unhealthy about it? It's just a bit of imagination…"

"And that's the point! Going around thinking about how to maim or kill people –"

"You never know when you might need it – "

"Not in school!"

"If it makes you feel better, I was only imagining Professor Quirrell for it."

"Why Professor Quirrell?" Hermione cried, horrified.

"Well, I sort of think he's evil…"

That gained him several incredulous looks.

"But he's a teacher!"

"I know _that_-"

"YOU –"

"Er, guys?"

They both glanced over at Neville.

"Shouldn't we be, uh, studying? And…umm, Madame Pince is glaring at you again."

Harry peered over his shoulder, smiling sweetly at her, and smirking as she huffed and turned away.

Hermione sighed, scowling at Harry. "Honestly…"

"We should write a song," Harry said suddenly.

Everyone turned to him, shocked and slightly wary.

"To commemorate our first year of studying together. A mnemonic song – about…ooh! All the wonderful curses and hexes and jinxes that Professor Quirrell _didn't _teach us, and we _didn't _actually learn!"

* * *

Exam week passed quickly – the exams were spread out from Monday until Friday, and when students weren't taking exams, they were revising busily; in no time at all, it was all over. By Friday afternoon, Harry was starting to fear that the two and a half hours brewing and writing on the Forgetfulness Potion would not overpower the impending threat of a nightmare featuring tap-dancing pineapples showering cauldron makers with a barrage of snuffboxes with whiskers and mouse tails in his dreams. Currently, though, his sleep, which was in his opinion sure to be tormented by exam memories, was staved off as he lay in the grass outside Hogwarts, shoes, socks, and jacket thrown off, his tie loosened and shirt unbuttoned. Hermione, Neville, Anthony, Terry, Michael, and Ernie were sitting with him, all of them looking quite worn out.

"I can't believe it's over," Harry mused.

"Yep," Terry sighed, "One year down, six to go."

Neville collapsed backward on the grass. "I hope I didn't fail all my exams."

Ernie nodded. "Me too."

Hermione scowled between them. "Honestly – you didn't fail! I saw you both studying, there's no way you can work that hard and fail."

"Unless we're just stupid," Ernie remarked.

"Just because you're not smart doesn't mean you're stupid," Michael pointed out.

Ernie frowned at him. "Thanks."

"You're not stupid! And you're all smart!" Hermione exclaimed frustratedly.

"None of us failed," Anthony said conclusively, "I'm sure we all did very well, and will do even better next year."

Hermione smiled at him. "That's the spirit! Oh, I can't wait until we get our book lists, then I can start studying, and –"

"Hermione." It was Neville who spoke. "Don't even talk about that right now."

"Yeah," Terry said, "If I see another book, I might burn it."

Hermione gaped at him. "But you're a Ravenclaw!"

"That doesn't mean I have to like exams. Ravenclaws are clever. One can cleverly burn a book."

Harry nodded. "Amen to that."

Hermione's gaze snapped toward him. "And what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Don't lie to me!" Hermione snapped, "You're all…all…grumpy!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Grumpy? I'm not…" He paused in thought. "Actually, I'm rather preoccupied."

Hermione blinked, the slightest concern marring her features. "With what?"

Harry bit his lip. "Have any of you got any pets?"

They were all silent for a moment, all of them giving off an air of incredulity.

"I've got Trevor," Neville finally said.

Harry shook his head. "Amphibians don't count. They can't talk."

Hermione frowned. "Neither can other pets."

"Cats meow, dogs bark, birds sing, mice squeak…"

"And frogs ribbit," Hermione deadpanned.

Harry blanched. "Right. _Never mind_...but still, any other pets?"

"Owls?" Anthony tried.

"Nope, not good enough."

"My mum keeps a bunch of kneazles at home," Ernie said.

"Do they like peanut butter?"

Ernie blinked. "Er…no?"

"And do they have an appetite for human flesh?"

Ernie looked quite horrified. "…no?"

Harry shook his head. "No good, then."

"What sort of pet are you looking for?" Hermione exclaimed.

"A dog. A big, hairy, slightly vicious dog."

Neville looked at him frantically, a nervous look on his face, but Harry only winked.

"A dog?" Hermione said, "My aunt used to have a dog."

Harry smiled. "Splendid. Now, how did she manage to calm it down when she wanted it to shut up and leave her alone? Like, when tossing it stake, bones, peanut butter, chew toys, and small edible animals didn't work. Short of murdering it, that is."

Hermione looked like she had just swallowed a lemon – but she was probably swallowing something between horror and exasperation. "She'd…I don't know, pet it...I guess? Talk to it? Play it music, maybe?"

"Music?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, some people say that music calms animals."

"You don't say…" Harry muttered, "What do you think a dog would like better? Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin?"

* * *

It was twenty seconds before one o'clock AM, and Harry was lying awake in his bed, counting down the moments until he would set out.

"So what are you trying tonight?" Jean queried with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm going to sing to it," Harry said as he sat up, slipping his shoes on.

"Sing to it?" Jean echoed incredulously. "You're going to serenade the hellhound! Ah, how clever!" he said sarcastically.

"I know!"

"I was being sarcastic."

"And I was ignoring you." He glanced at the portrait. "I've got a good feeling about it."

"You've...got a good feeling about it."

He nodded. "That I do. Later."

Peeking inside his Brilliant Boundless Bag, the B3, he made sure his emergency kit was present – it consisted of his Tarot cards, his Rhabdomancy stick, a charmed knife from the kitchen, and a list of useful hexes and curses, along with the counter spells. He hopped out of bed, tiptoeing through the room, pointedly looking away from the mirror, and then he slipped through the door and ran down the stairs, stopping in front of the portrait hole in the common room to put his invisibility cloak on.

"And where are you going?"

Harry spun around, finding Michael and Terry standing behind him, arms crossed and an expectant expression on their faces.

"To the kitchens."

"Liar!" Terry called.

Michael rolled his eyes. "Honestly, we know you're up to something."

"And it has to do with a dog," Terry added, "Probably the third floor corridor too."

Harry looked amused. "What makes you say that?"

"Yesterday, Neville looked quite alarmed when you spoke of a dog – I'm sure you remember that rumour before Christmas of you two sneaking up to the corridor…a rumour I still think you started," Michael said matter-of-factly.

"And then there was what you said about chew toys and small animals – Lisa's missing a teddy bear and Mandy's missing a cat," Terry added.

Harry bit his lip, glaring at the other two boys, but then relented. "Alright, fine, there's a hellhound guarding a trap door in the third floor corridor, and I'm trying to get past it."

Both boys gaped quite widely, jaws slack and eyes round like marbles.

"Why?" Michael finally managed.

"Maybe I'll tell you after I've gotten past."

Terry and Michael frowned.

"Now, be the wonderful friends you are, go back to bed and don't tell anyone?" Harry asked sweetly.

They both shook their heads.

"We're coming with, mate," Terry said.

Michael nodded. "Make sure you don't get killed or expelled or something. And that's final."

Harry glanced between them with a raised eyebrow, and then sighed. "Fine, fine, let's go."

He pushed open the portrait, nearly jumping when he found Neville standing outside, arms crossed.

"Neville!"

"Harry," Neville said, puffing out his chest with forced confidence. "I know you're going back to the third floor corridor."

Harry sighed exasperatedly. "What is this? An intervention?"

"Nah," Terry remarked, "Just a coincidence."

Neville peered inside the portrait hole. "What are they doing?"

"Coming with," Harry said, "You might as well come too, then."

"M-m-me?"

"Yeah, you."

He grabbed Neville's arm and stepped out of the portrait hole, motioning for the others to follow, Neville looking quite alarmed as Harry draped the invisibility cloak as best as he could over the four of them.

Together, the four boys scampered down the stairs of Ravenclaw tower, making a turn down one of the corridors, finding themselves running toward the staircases. They traversed a few, and before long, they found themselves at the entrance of the third floor corridor. They walked to the end of the corridor, stopping at the large, heavy door as Harry took off the cloak and folded it up, stuffing it in his B3.

"Now," he said, "One of us has to stay behind."

Terry blinked. "What?"

Harry looked at him. "It's actually better that you three tagged along, in the end. If something happens down there to us, it would be best to have someone on the surface who knows exactly where we are."

"That's smart," Michael agreed.

Harry nodded. "Now, who wants to stay?"

The other three boys just glanced between each other.

Harry sighed. "Right then. Rock Paper Scissors it is."

"What?" Neville asked.

"Rock Paper Scissors," Harry said, "It's a muggle game. Very useful for making decisions. You count to three with another person and form a symbol with your hand. A closed fist is rock, an open hand is paper, and two fingers are scissors. Rock crushes scissors, paper covers rock, and scissors cut paper. Whoever beats the other wins."

"But that sounds like a two person game..." Michael began unsurely.

Harry nodded. "Usually."

"And there's three of us.

"No matter what, Neville's coming with me."

Neville looked at him, surprised.

"Neville's terrified of Fluffy in there, so I won't leave him just outside its room."

"Who's Fluffy?" Michael asked.

"Never mind that," Harry said, "Anyway, Terry, play Michael. You say, 'One, two, three, Rock, Paper, Scissors!' And then you make your play."

Terry and Michael glanced at each other, and then said together, "One, two three, Rock! Paper! Scissors!"

Terry held out a rock and Michael held out scissors.

"Well, it looks like Michael's on lookout duty," Harry shrugged.

Michael scowled at him darkly, huffing and crossing his arms.

Harry grinned, and pointed his wand at the door. _"Alohomora."_

The door clicked open, Harry slipping in and motioning for Neville and Terry to follow, Neville whimpering when he saw the great beast sleeping beside the trap door…and Harry frozen in front of it, eyes fixed on a harp playing in the corner.

"He's already here…" Harry whispered.

"Who?" Terry asked.

Harry jumped, seemingly only just noticing their presence. "No one. Damn. I was so looking forward to serenading it with my rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody."

The other two glanced at him, utterly puzzled.

Harry sighed. "Never mind. Come on." He opened the trap door looking down into it. "I can't see anything inside…_lumos._" He squinted. "Still nothing. We'll just have to jump."

"W-what?" Neville asked.

Harry shrugged. "It's got to be done. Let's go." He smiled at them and jumped.

Terry and Neville gaped at each other.

"Do you ever get the feeling…that maybe, just maybe, befriending Harry Potter was not the wisest decisions? That…it might just get you killed one day?" Terry said.

"I heard that!" came Harry's voice from inside the hole.

"I try not to think about it…" Neville muttered. "Well, he seems to be alive." He took a deep breath, jumping in behind Harry.

"Bloody hell," Terry moaned, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, and jumping in also. When he opened his eyes, he was shocked to find himself cradled in a dense, winding, vine-like plant. He wriggled about slightly, panicking when he found the vines tightening about him. "What is this?" he cried.

Harry, who looked as though he was trying very hard to stay calm, replied, "I don't know. We…we just need to find a way to get out."

"It's Devil's Snare!" Neville exclaimed suddenly, eyes darting about, observing the plant as its tentacle-like vines wrapped around his legs. "I recognize its leaves!"

Harry gasped as one of the tendrils snaked across his chest. "Then…then sunlight…sunlight repels it?"

Neville nodded frantically.

"Right then...sunlight...fire!" He twitched the wrist of his wand arm. "_Incendio!"_

A small fireball was spit out of his wand, colliding with the vines, causing them to shrivel as they burned, the surrounding branches drawing back, loosening their hold on the boys and leaving a gaping hole in the middle of the floor.

"Quick!" Harry cried, diving through. He groaned as his body connected with the stone floor, swearing violently when Terry's and Neville's bodies landed on top of him.

They both rolled off him.

"Oh Merlin!" Neville cried, "I'm so sorry, Harry!"

"Meh, he's fine," Terry muttered, standing and dusting himself off.

"I'm not bloody fine!" Harry snapped, moaning when he stood. "Come on," he said after a moment, looking down the stone passageway, "Let's go on."

They nodded, and followed him down the passage, listening to the echoing of their own footsteps mingled with the sound of the delicate trickling of water down the walls – but eventually, another sound joined in. It was rustling, fluttering.

"Can you hear something strange?" Neville wondered quietly, his voice wavering slightly.

Harry stopped, cocking his head to the side. "It sounds like…birds?" He squinted. "There's a light ahead!"

The boys ran forward, to the end of the passageway, running into the light, finding themselves in a brightly lit chamber, the ceiling arching high above them. In the dome-like ceiling, tiny jewel-like birds fluttered about, at a distance from the heavy wooden door on the other side of the room.

"What are those?" Neville asked, his voice awed.

Harry squinted, stepping forward slightly. "They…they're keys!" He looked at the door on the other side of the room. "How much do you want to bet an _Alohomora_ won't open it?"

Terry frowned. "But they're way up there…how are you supposed to get them?"

"With those," Harry said, pointing to a collection of brooms lying against the door. "Well, let's -"

He paused when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to find Neville and Terry staring at him.

"Are you going to explain what's going on first?" Terry asked.

"Look, there's no time…"

"Harry," Neville said pleadingly. "We've braved hellhounds and murderous plants…"

"And now flying keys. In less than ten minutes," Terry added.

Harry sighed. "Look…there's something hidden down here, and someone's trying to steal it. We need to find it first, because I can't let it be stolen."

Terry frowned confusedly. "Why do you even care?"

Neville nodded, equally perplexed.

"I just…I just do, okay? Maybe I can explain more later…but now? Bad things will happen if whoever's looking for it gets there before us. We've got to hurry." He dashed across the room, stopping in front of the door and taking a long look at the lock, memorizing where all the crevices and dents were, trying to visualize what the correct key would look like. A few moments later, he picked up one of the brooms and kicked off the ground.

Almost as soon as he took off, the flying keys began to swirl swiftly about, darting and diving about the domed ceiling. Harry, who, during his flying lessons, had been the most talented flyer in his class, was barely able to keep up with the mass horde of fluttering keys, let alone find the one that fit in the lock.

"You two!" he called down to the two staring boys below. "Take a look at the lock, and help me spot the correct key!"

"Er…" Neville said uneasily, "I think I'll stay off the brooms if that's alright with you…"

Terry, who had already gone to look at the lock, rolled his eyes, and went to pick up one of the brooms. "Right, I'll be right up."

Harry dived down again, chasing after the keys, grinning when he saw Terry joining him. "It'll be silver like the lock, big and old fashioned."

"Right –" Terry cringed as they jerked to the side again, following the keys. His eyes widened and he pointed forward. "There! The one with the crumpled blue wings! That'll be it."

"Perfect," Harry smirked and plunged forward, leaning over his broom as he neared the key. "I'll get it, fly to the door and be ready."

Terry nodded, and made to turn around, but almost fell off his broom when he saw Harry lunge forward and jump, grabbing the key and holding it to his chest as he fell to the ground.

"OOMPH!" Harry grunted, cringing as he scrambled to his feet, leaping toward the door and fitting the key in, as the flying keys above veered toward him, approaching him in a torrent of fluttering wings. "Come on!"

The other two boys leapt through the door after him, gasping as they slammed the door shut behind them.

"A-alright there?" Harry breathed.

Neville only nodded, but Terry exclaimed indignantly, "Never doing that again!"

Harry grinned at him. "Hopefully, you won't have to." He turned his head forward, observing the large subterranean chamber they had found themselves in – from their slightly elevated vantage point, he could see an exit across from them; but blocking their way were several tall, sheer walls of stone. By all appearances, it was a labyrinth.

Harry stepped down from the elevated plane they stood upon, walking toward the greyish walls, in the middle of which stood a narrow opening. "It's a –"

"A maze!" Terry exclaimed, running forward. "I love mazes!" He stood in front of the smooth walls, glee on his face, and leaping through the opening.

"No, Terry, wai-"

Suddenly, there was a deep rumbling below them, and a moment later, the stone walls shook and then snapped together, Terry disappearing within the maze.

Neville squeaked with surprise. "What just happened?"

Harry sighed, a concerned look on his face. "There was a Cerberus from Hagrid, Devil's Snare grown by Professor Sprout. The only one who could have done the charmwork on the keys and the door is Professor Flitwick. My guess is, everyone with a relevant discipline on the staff set up an obstacle. This one must be…Professor McGonagall's – transfiguration, a moving maze."

The walls rumbled and shifted again, another opening forming.

"Only one of us can enter at a time." He glanced over at Neville. "Do you want to go, or shall I?"

Neville sighed, then took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I'll go first."

Harry nodded. "Good luck."

He watched quietly as Neville marched steadily toward the maze, disappearing as the stone closed behind him. A moment later, the walls split again.

"Here goes nothing."

* * *

If you're happy and you know it, click review!


	14. Of Rhabdomancy and Revelations

**Disclaimer:** This belongs to a woman I greatly admire – believe me, I wouldn't steal from her.

**AN:** Thanks, everyone for reading! It makes my days as an underappreciated university student just that much brighter :)

* * *

**Chapter 14: Of Rhabdomancy and Revelations**

Harry was frustrated. _Very _frustrated. At least twenty minutes had passed, and he had been going in circles, he was sure. He would wander through a promising looking passage for a while, and then the ground would shake, and the walls would shift – new passages would open up, dead ends would appear, and Harry would be even more lost than before.

Now, having veered through a promising looking turn, Harry was running through one of the passages as quickly as he could, but skidded to a halt when he heard rumbling below him. Right in front of him the passage morphed shut, and to his left another opened up. Harry took a deep breath – and an idea sprang to mind: what if it was all a trick? Like Platform 9 ¾? Pausing a moment, Harry darted forward, straight into where the wall had closed up before him – colliding with it rather fantastically, flying backwards and bashing his head on the ground violently.

"Ugh…that didn't work."

Stupid ground, stupid walls, stupid maze – the whole thing was a trick alright, one big cruel trick, an impossible one. However, just as he was about to give up on the prospect of clever ideas, one sprang to mind – one that made him feel incredibly stupid. He bashed his head on the ground again in self-reprimand.

"Oww…"

Blinking away the pain, he woozily reached to his side and opened his B3, drawing out his Rhabdomancy stick. Standing up shakily, he tossed it on the ground, watching it tumble in a pinwheel-like motion, waiting for it to stop spinning. He wasn't quite sure that the transfiguration magic wouldn't interfere with his divination; however, when the stick shivered on the ground, waiting for the wall on the left to rumble before coming to rest on the ground, Harry was hopeful.

Every few metres, he would let the stick fall to the ground, waiting for it to stop spinning; occasionally, it would just twist and point down a passage, but often, it would spin rapidly on the ground for a few minutes, waiting for the walls to shift and reveal a new way.

It was after a half hour of following his stick through the shifting passages of McGonagall's labyrinth that he managed to tumble out of the other side, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, breathing heavily.

"You alright there, Harry?"

Harry spun around, finding Terry leaning against the outer wall. He stuffed his stick back into his B3. "Yeah, I'm fine…just….I don't like small enclosed spaces like that – it gives me the creeps."

Terry quirked an eyebrow. "Right. Where's Neville?"

"Still inside, I guess." He frowned. "How did you get through so fast?"

Terry shrugged. "I told you, I like mazes. I'm good at them too – even the moving ones. I got through in only about ten minutes – it was quite a challenge though, with the moving walls. I eventually figured out the pattern, though."

"A pattern?" Harry asked faintly.

"Yeah, to how the walls moved. You didn't see it? How did you even get through?" Terry asked incredulously.

"A bit of hard-earned luck, I guess."

"Huh. Anyway, I think we have to go through that door next…" he gestured to the left.

"Oh?" Harry turned about and strode up to the door in the exit chamber.

"What about Neville?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder. "He'll follow – we haven't got time to wait though. He's not in any danger… unless he gets squished by the moving walls…nah. You coming?"

Terry nodded reluctantly, following behind Harry, who opened the door, and then drew back, covering his face.

"Ugh!"

A rancid, rotting smell filled the air, and both boys peered into the room with great trepidation. On the ground, they found a dead troll lying in a pool of its own blood, a gaping gash on the top of his head.

"Safe to say someone's already been here," Harry muttered, carefully stepping past the troll and glancing about the chamber. "The chamber's so small, and the troll's so big…you would have to know _exactly _what you're doing and how to kill it to get past, or you'd have no time to think up a plan, and it'd crush you. Good thing this one was already done for us..."

"Lovely," Terry coughed out, "Let's get out of here, quick!"

Harry nodded, pulling at the next door – but it was locked.

Terry took one look at the glowing metal contraption binding the door to the frame and blanched. "What the hell?"

Harry's eyes were wide. "It's a muggle lock!"

"Muggle! Muggles can create something like this?"

Harry nodded. "It's an electrical lock – opened by a code. People have them in their homes and businesses, to keep intruders out." He pointed to the keypad, which bore 10 digits, 0 to 9. "We've got 10 possible buttons for the code…"

"So we press the right set of numbers, and it opens?" Terry asked.

Harry nodded.

"But that's impossible! We don't know how long the code is, and there could be infinitely many combinations then…"

Harry nodded again. "And it probably shuts down indefinitely after a certain amount of mistakes – these sorts of things usually do." He shrugged and typed in 0-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9 – and a loud, high, unpleasant shriek sounded, causing both boys to cover their ears and cry out in pain.

"Gah, that hurt! Don't do that again! Get the right one!"

"Umm…" He typed in 9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-0, and the shriek sounded again, even louder and higher, causing both boys to fall to their knees.

"Damn, Harry! If it keeps getting louder, it'll knock us out!"

"If the smell doesn't…"

"Ugh…I'm trying to forget about that…Merlin, it stinks! Come on, we've got to figure something out..."

"I know! But they didn't leave us any clues, and it could be anything…but they wouldn't make it an impossible puzzle, would they? There must be a trick..."

"That's sort of the point of a combination lock, isn't it?"

"Wait, a combination…what if…ten buttons…could it be that simple?"

"What?"

"If there are ten buttons, and each button can only be picked once, there are a possible…uh…three million, six hundred and twenty eight thousand, eight hundred combinations."

"Wow! How do you know that?" Terry asked curiously.

"You can find out with any number, you just multiply it by all the numbers before it… it's a technique muggles use in a branch of mathematics called combinatorics - but wizards use it as well, in arithmancy, runeology, divination...but never mind, perhaps 3-6-2-8-8-0-0 is the combination – it's clever, but not impossible."

"But what if it doesn't work, and the noise gets louder…"

"You got a better idea?"

"No…" Terry groaned.

"Right then." Harry took a deep breath and punched in, 3-6-2-8-8-0-0.

Both boys cringed, waiting for the shriek – but it never came, and the door clicked open.

Harry grinned at Terry, who grinned weakly back, and together, they entered the next chamber.

Inside, they found a table, differently shaped bottles lined across it. Harry walked over, picking up one of the bottles curiously. Terry followed behind him, and suddenly, a purple fire sprang up in the doorway behind them, and black flames in the door in front, leaving them trapped.

"Potion bottles? I bet Professor Snape designed this one…wonder how much pain is involved."

Terry shivered. "Don't even talk about that." He frowned though, when he saw a piece of paper lying on the table. "Here, listen to this:

"Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,  
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,  
One among us seven will let you move ahead,  
Another will transport the drinker back instead,  
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,  
Three of us are killers, waiting bidden in line.  
Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,  
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:  
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide  
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;  
Second, different are those who stand at either end,  
But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;  
Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,  
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;  
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right  
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight."

"So," Harry mused, smirking, "One to move forward, which we need – one to get us back if we're scared. Two more useless bottles, and three bottles of poison. The wine's always on the right of the poison – so we've got an arrangement of five; two wines on the right and three poisons on the left, all in a neat row, with the one to go forward and the one to get back in between or on the edges somewhere….the one to go forward's not at either end, and then neither the largest nor smallest bottle will kill us, so they're not poison…and then the ones second to the left and second to the right are the same…." He grinned. "This small bottle, here." He picked up the smallest flask, and frowned.

"There's only enough for one of us," Terry remarked.

"But someone's already been here…they must refill themselves every so often," Harry mused, looking over to Terry. "I'll go first…you wait here for Neville before you come through, alright?"

"But how will he get through?"

"He doesn't have to, just make sure that's he's alright, and can go for help if necessary."

Terry frowned. "Harry, what's going on? Who's on the other side – you _do_ know, don't you?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe, can't really be sure. But no matter." He downed the contents of the bottle, shivering as an icy feeling washed over his skin. "See you in ten." He turned about, toward the black flames, and purposefully strode through, finding himself in a large, round chamber, a tall mirror in the centre, a figure standing before it that Harry wasn't all that surprised to see.

"Professor Quirrell."

The figure spun around, leering at Harry a moment, before smiling coyly, an air of confidence present on his face, not twitching or shaking at all. "Potter."

Harry stepped away from the door. "Fancy seeing you here."

Professor Quirrell quirked an eyebrow. "You don't seem all that surprised to see me here."

Harry shook his head. "I kept telling people…no one that lame _couldn't _be evil."

Professor Quirrell looked amused. "So you saw through my act."

Harry shrugged. "Not really…maybe…I dunno. I'm impressed though – it's not easy to fake fainting, especially that often. It's very hard to relax your entire body and fake unconsciousness when you fully intend to drop from full height on a hard stone floor…after all, fall at the wrong angle or in the wrong place, and you'd kill yourself. I wonder though, why someone who isn't in law enforcement and was too young to have fought in the war would have such impressive physical discipline. It seems…odd. Because you would have to be a _very _good actor, both consciously and subconsciously, to fool all the Hogwarts Professors, especially with such a ridiculous act. Either you were planning this for a very long time, or you work for someone who's very demanding."

"You're really far too clever for your own good, Potter."

"People have been telling me that my whole life – not that I care. And I'm obviously not going to care if you say it, seeing as you're evil and everything. Why is that, by the way? Why do _you _need the Philosopher's Stone?"

"So you know about that too?" Quirrell said, narrowing his eyes.

"Yup – wasn't even hard to find out…you'd think more security measures would be taken…." He looked over Quirrell's shoulder, at the mirror. "What's that though?"

Quirrell scowled. "The last safeguard for the Stone…"

Intrigued, Harry stepped forward, reading off the top of the mirror, on the golden frame: "'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi'." He frowned, glancing at Quirrell. "I wonder what language that is?" His eyes widened when he saw Quirrell smirk. "It's backwards! 'I show not your face but your heart's desire'. Brilliant!"

"Indeed," Quirrell drawled, "This mirror is the key to finding the Stone…trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this… but he's in London… I'll be far away by the time he gets back…"

Harry took a step forward, listening intently with his head leaned sideways in curiosity.

"I see the Stone… I'm presenting it to my master… but where is it?"

"Wait, your master?" Harry asked, slightly alarmed.

"Of course, my master, it is he who the stone is for," Quirrell said idly, examining the mirror.

"To infiltrate Hogwarts for your master, to go to such lengths for him, he must be powerful…and he must be close by, ready to aide your escape with the Stone…" Harry prodded curiously.

"He is with me wherever I go," said Quirrell quietly. "I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it… Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me… decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me…"

Harry frowned thoughtfully – Lord Voldemort was his master? But wasn't he dead? How could he be with him wherever he went? Was he just schizophrenic? Quirrell was the one who broke into Gringotts in August? His mind was buzzing so loudly that he barely registered Quirrell's musing,

"I don't understand… is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"

And he replied on reflex, "That's stupid – don't do that, you'll never get the stone then…"

He certainly didn't notice Quirrell glaring at him as he tried to figure out a way to get the Stone for himself. The mirror showed what someone desired by default – but it didn't give it to you. But there must have been a way to get the Stone out…Quirrell couldn't get to the Stone, even though he desired it more than anything else; there must have been another condition. Perhaps the mirror wouldn't give the Stone to you if you actually wanted it? But anyone who needed to retrieve it would want it. It must have had something to do with desire though, because the mirror interpreted desire. Harry gasped quietly: it was the _reason _for the desire – the seeker couldn't desire anything to do with using the Stone for their own purposes…

Harry was suddenly startled out of his reflections when he heard Quirrell speak in a distressed voice,

"What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

Harry frowned. Where was his master?

"Use the boy… Use the boy…" The voice came from behind him, cold, deep, and frail – and yet it chilled Harry to the bone.

Quirrell suddenly turned about, leering at Harry. "Yes — Potter — come here."

Harry panicked, freezing. _Damn it_. Whoever 'Master' was – it surely couldn't be _Voldemort_, could it? – he must have figured out the mirror's secret.

"Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

Harry stepped forward slowly, reluctantly, wincing as Quirrell grabbed his arm and shoved him in front of the mirror. Harry closed his eyes a moment, but when Quirrell's grip on him tightened, his eyes snapped open, and he looked in the mirror. He was quite disappointed when he only saw himself – a short, skinny boy with eerily bright green eyes and uncontrollably messy hair that fell almost down to his shoulders. _I really need to get it cut…_

Suddenly, though, his reflection smiled at him – which was actually very creepy, especially considering that he was still on bad terms with mirrors in general. The reflection put its hand into its pocket at pulled out a blood-red stone – the same stone that Death had crushed in his hand. It winked at Harry and put the stone back in its pocket – and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. So he had been correct, and he had gotten the stone – but now he needed to keep it away from Quirrell.

"Well?" exclaimed Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"

Harry did his best to relax, steadying his heartbeat and his voice. "I see myself in a lab, holding the Stone," he lied easily, "Making piles and piles of shiny gold."

Quirrell cursed under his breath, letting go of Harry and pushing him aside. "Get out of the way."

Harry's mind was working furiously as he crept away from Quirrell. What should he do? Should he continue to bluff, or just drop all pretences and destroy the damn thing? Could he even destroy the Stone before Quirrell had a chance to stop him?

Suddenly, the cold voice spoke again, "He lies… He lies…"

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted, eyes wide. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

Harry cursed. "Pumpkin pasties, treacle tarts, and marmalade sausages," he sneered, backing away.

"Let me speak to him… face-to-face…" It was that awful, high, wheezing voice again.

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough… for this…"

Harry wanted to use Quirrell slowly unwrapping his turban as a distraction, so he could run off and destroy the Stone, he truly did – but the curiosity was too great, and he could not help but watch with intent fascination as the turban fluttered to the ground and Quirrell turned about. And what was revealed was another face; a horrible chalk-white face with piercing red eyes and snake-like slits for nostrils.

"Harry Potter…" it whispered.

And Harry knew – without a doubt, what the face truly was…"Lord Voldemort," he breathed – even in such a sorry state, the being demanded some sort of awe, whether that was horror or amazement, Harry didn't know. But the feeling seized him tightly, as he finally came face to face with the man who had murdered his mother and father, taking away the only people who ever loved him, the man who attempted to murder him - the man he had apparently killed instead...back from the dead. Or did he ever truly die? The feeling was chilling, disorientating, and heavy, sinking deep into his chest. He bit his lip hard, attempting to get a hold of himself. "You don't have a nose," he remarked blankly.

"You see what I have become?" Lord Voldemort said with thinned lips and narrowed eyes. "A mere shadow and vapor… I have form only when I can share another's body… but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds… unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks… you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest… and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own… Now… why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

"So you know then?" Harry asked weakly, trying to buy time to think.

"Of course…you cannot hide from me, boy."

Harry took a deep breath and slowly moved his hand toward his pocket and stepped back. "Maybe not…"

"Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "Better save your own life and join me… or you'll meet the same end as your parents… They died begging me for mercy…"

Perfect. "Join you?" he asked, ignoring the derogatory barb about his parents. "You expect me to just up and join you? No prelude?"

The face of Voldemort narrowed its eyes.

"Not going to pitch your position to me? Because you know, joining your little band of merry murdering Death Munchers isn't all that appealing…"

"Oh really? I have watched you, Harry Potter, and I believe you would fit in quite well – your skill with curses and combative magics is…impressive. You have an intrinsic desire for chaos, and it follows you wherever you go – you revel in it, you thrive on it, and you perpetuate it. And you always manage not to get caught…"

"Aww, really? You're impressed? About what exactly? Why exactly would I make such a splendid villain? I'm really not seeing it...because, you know, I may be a piece of work, but I'm not a psychopath, and I'd say I'm a general, all-around decent person. A bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but what sort of neglected orphan boy wouldn't be? I mean, really, what do people expect –"

"Enough! I know what you're trying to do!" Voldemort interrupted. "Stop stalling and give me the stone! I'll give you anything you ask for, just hand it over."

Harry scoffed - the idea was preposterous, and for some reason, ghastly and infuriating. "Anything? _Anything_? Are you going to bring the dead back to life, restore the lives you've already taken? Give me a family? Erase the years I spent alone? Bring my cousin back to life? Can you tell me everything I want to know? Take away the things I wish I didn't know? Your power's really gone to your head, hasn't it? Are you really that proud…no, that _stupid_, to think that you could give me _anything_, anything at all? Or do you just think me to be an idiot?" His voice had grown louder through his rant, and he finished with a shout, ripping the stone out of his pocket. "You want it? Take it!" He threw the stone across the room, and as Quirrell turned about at darted after it, he drew his wand, aiming carefully, declaring, "_Reducto!_"

Just as Quirrell came within reaching distance of the stone, the curse hit it, and it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, disintegrating into dust and scattering.

Harry was somewhere between celebration and horror, when Quirrell rose up, Voldemort's voice sounding up behind him, "Potter…how _dare _you…"

"What?" Harry snapped, "Take away your chances at coming back, at gaining eternal life? I was looking forward to meeting you, you know, to learning your name – but I'm just disappointed now! Voldemort! Is it that simple? Flight of Death – you're fleeing the inevitable, some great lord you are! I thought Lord Voldemort would be the most fascinating wizard of them all, but it turns out –"

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Harry dodged the curse and continued to rant furiously, "It turns out you're just a crackpot, has-been wizard who lost his mind a long time ago! _Bombarda! Reducto!_"

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Harry narrowly dodged the green light and dove behind one of the pillars in the chamber, reaching into his B3 as he leaned against the stone support, drawing out the charmed knife he had gotten from the house elves – he had altered the vegetable cutting charm so that the knife connected with the closest living thing it was thrown at.

"Potter...Harry..." wheezed Voldemort's high, cold voice, "Come out...now."

Harry barked out a laugh. "Why? So you can kill me easier?"

"Kneel before me and I shall forgive your...impertinence...I will let you live..."

Harry gritted his teeth. "You really think too much of yourself..." Taking a deep breath, he spun around, throwing the knife and darting toward the doorway on the other side of Quirrell.

A steady _protego _diverted the knife and suddenly, Quirrell's arm snaked out and grabbed Harry's – and as it did, the strangest thing happened; the man's skin began to sizzle and burn, and a sharp pain shot up Harry's hands and into his scar. Quirrell drew back instantly.

"Master, I cannot touch him — my hands — my hands!"

"Get away then, and kill him!" the voice on the back of his head exclaimed.

Memories of the night in the forest sprang into Harry's mind, and he mustered up all the feelings boiling in his chest – anxiety, the fear, the desperation, the hope, the disgust, the thrill of his own magic, his own ability to get out of this – and he lunged forward, latching onto Quirrell's neck, and they both fell to the floor crying out. As Quirrell's face began to burn and shrivel – his eyes growing wide with pain as the skin pealed and the blood instantly dried and hardened, burning up with the quickly blackening and disintegrating skin – the pain in Harry's scar began to pulse violently, and he began to grow dizzy and faint; and the last thing he heard before all went dark were the desperate shrieks of "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" going silent.

* * *

There we go! Stone's destroyed, Voldemort's gone (for now), and I can stop imposing my own irrational fear of mirrors on poor Harry. All in a day's work (literally).

And now, to finish: if you're happy and you know it and you really want to show it, if you're happy and you know it, click review!


	15. Of Curiosity and Conclusion

**Disclaimer:** Not owning anything here…well, except my brain, which sort of puts it all together...

**AN: **Thanks for the reviews, my lovely, lovable readers!

* * *

**Chapter 15: Of Curiosity and Conclusion**

zt...zzt...zt...zt...zzzzzzt...

* * *

"_Tom, Tom? Where are you?"_

* * *

What was that sound?

* * *

"_No Tom, don't...don't! It hurts! Don't...no! Tom!"_

* * *

Buzzing...a droning hum...like...static...

* * *

"_Hello, Tom, my name is Albus Dumbledore…"_

* * *

It felt so cold...

* * *

_"I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt if I want to...I can speak to snakes too. They find me, they whisper to me. "_

* * *

Over the murmuring, the humming – a voice? Whose voice was that?

* * *

"_Sir, I wondered what you know about…about Horcruxes?"_

* * *

The static's so loud...it hurt...

* * *

"_Hello, Mr. Burke…"_

* * *

The image of a boy – raven hair and eyes like dark rubies...

* * *

"_Rumours of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be sorry to believe half of them."_

"_Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore."_

* * *

It's raining...it's cold...dark...the buzzing growing louder...and then a shriek...

* * *

"_Not Harry, please no don't kill him, take me, kill me instead –"_

"_This is my last warning –"_

"_Not Harry! Please…have mercy…Not Harry! Please – I'll do anything…NO!"_

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

* * *

He thought he saw a man, gaunt and pale – Death, his memory vaguely supplied – hovering over him, smiling and whispering something...

* * *

The cold, dead face of a young woman, bright green eyes frozen and vivacious red hair taunting the lifelessness of her features…she looked so afraid…

* * *

"MOM!"

Harry shot up in his bed, breathing heavily, brow dripping with a cold sweat. He whipped his head back and forth, blinking as he took in the pristine, whitish scenery of the Hogwarts infirmary, none other than the Headmaster seated at the foot of his bed, dressed in one of his garish, colourful satin robes - a rather bright one, with purple trimmings, and orange flowers embroidered about the tasseled edges.

"Headmaster...?"

"You have been asleep nearly three days, Harry," Professor Dumbledore said quietly, glancing over at the table beside the infirmary bed, on which was an obscenely high, unstable looking pile of sweets.

Harry blinked, slowly recovering his faculties, and also glanced at the table, smiling greedily when he saw the treasures on top. "Mine?"

"Tokens from your friends and admirers," remarked Professor Dumbledore, with a brilliant smile. "What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your acquaintances Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madame Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it."

Harry smirked. "I'll have to get it back from her – I've always wanted my own toilet seat. It's sort of like a secret desire I've never had the opportunity to articulate."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Is that so? I myself have always desired a warm, woolly pair of socks for Christmas."

Harry chuckled along with him, mulling over the events that preceded his waking - and then sobered, eyes flashing with recollection. "If I'm here...then...then you know what happened to Professor Quirrell?"

"Young Michael Corner wakened Professor Flitwick, last night, saying that you, Mr. Longbottom, and Mr. Boot had gone down the trapdoor on the third floor corridor. We found Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Boot before long - do not worry, they are quite well and unharmed - and they said that you had gone to prevent something from being stolen – we found you unconscious along with Professor Quirrell's burnt body."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, brows furrowing ever so slightly.

"I am curious, Harry, as to what happened to him…"

"I killed him," Harry interrupted quietly, "A desperate bout of accidental magic."

Professor Dumbledore closed his eyes, nodding grimly, before his twinkling blues were revealed again, warm with concern and sadness. "I am sorry, dear boy, that it came to that – but do not dwell on it, you were in –"

"I don't feel bad," Harry interrupted stiffly, though he didn't even know whether he was telling the truth or not.

"Indeed," Professor Dumbledore mumbled. "But I am curious as to how you knew of what lay below the third floor corridor in the first place."

"It wasn't hard to figure out," Harry shot back, "Your groundskeeper isn't exactly the most discrete of men. Anyone with some good instincts and a decently functioning brain could have figured it out. But on that note, I also am curious as to why something like the Philosopher's Stone was at a _school _in the first place. And why the protections guarding it were not designed to keep out an intruder, but rather to delay one."

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, for one thing, they were _obstacles _- challenges that are meant to be overcome. There was no extra warding around it, either. In fact, it was almost as though you were _begging _someone to steal the thing."

Dumbledore's bright blue orbs twinkled rather merrily. "Indeed, Mr. Potter. You truly do belong in Ravenclaw House, don't you? Yes, I expected someone to try and steal the Stone – someone who was long believed dead –"

"Voldemort," Harry interjected, "You – you suspected that he never died that night, and you wanted to know for sure. This was all a set-up, for him."

Dumbledore nodded. "You did meet him, then?"

"Briefly. But that doesn't matter – a school, Headmaster? You endangered all of your students!"

Dumbledore shook his head. "It would not be in Lord Voldemort's best interest to attack the students of this school."

"Really? Because I think he wouldn't mind all that much if it meant living forever," Harry snapped.

Something akin to regret flashed across the elderly man's face, causing it to pale and, seemingly, to age. "Perhaps – I had counted on the fact that I and the other Professors would be present to lessen the danger."

"But in the end, it was still a gamble, even if the odds were in your favour."

Dumbledore closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "That is true, that is true. An unwise decision on my part –"

"Don't get me wrong," Harry said quickly, "I would have done the same thing, probably. It's just…not something I would expect from you given what I've heard about you."

Dumbledore's eyes opened to twinkle at Harry once again, a smile twitching across his lips. "Appearances can be deceiving, my dear boy."

Harry glanced from the Headmaster's bright, intelligent eyes, and down to his colourful, ostentatiously ornamented robes. "So you're not an old man talented at misdirection and spinning the truth, who is amused with human frivolity and uses it to disguise his own deeper designs?"

The Headmaster chuckled with a raised eyebrow. "Or perhaps, Mr. Potter, you just see things that others don't. All that, just from my wardrobe?"

"Not just your wardrobe, sir – you can tell when you look into someone's eyes how intelligent and focused they are; you're both, but you play the fool…pretty much all the time. People are distracted by your eccentric tastes and mannerisms, excusing it as pure madness, which you are apparently entitled to because of your past achievements. When you make odd decisions and make forceful moves toward a certain end, it's just 'Dumbledore being Dumbledore,' and that's alright because by all accounts, you're a great man. The wardrobe's just a nice finishing touch."

"And what do you think, Harry?"

"I actually appreciate your fashion sense," Harry mused.

Dumbledore laughed and shook his head.

But Harry only quirked an eyebrow, irritation creeping into his voice as he expounded, "_I _think, though, that you're just a man – I don't think you're a fool or a villain or a hero, you just let people think what they want, and use that accordingly to further your plans – because you do have plans, lots of them. There are lots of brilliant wizards around, but they all seem to lack wisdom and common sense – I think you have a great deal of both, but you refrain from flaunting it. I think, Professor Dumbledore, you know, since we're both being so honest, that you're not really a great man, not even necessarily a good man; you're just a man, who means well, and does his best, whatever the hell that means."

The Headmaster looked rather amused, and yet sobered at Harry's analysis.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "But whatever plans you've got for me, sir, you can forget about them."

"What makes you say that I have plans for you, Harry?"

"I highly doubt that you'd get into such an honest and frank conversation with a mere first year, even one as awesome as me – you're trying to earn my trust. Maybe…maybe you think, now that you know Voldemort's around, that there's some connection to me."

"But there is a connection, Harry – it was you that defeated him ten years ago."

"Really? Because I don't think you believe that, I certainly don't. Not that it really matters, seeing as he's not actually dead. But I think you might have an idea what really happened that night –even if you don't, you know what he was doing there, that night, don't you? You know why he wanted us dead." Harry dearly hoped that the anxiety and desperation wrenching through his chest didn't make it into his voice.

A deep shadow of grief passed over the Headmaster's face. "Who can weave through the mind of a madman?"

Harry grimaced. "Yeah, who but another madman?" he asked pointedly. "You _do_ know the truth…"

"The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer any question you ask me unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie."

"Then why did Voldemort want me dead? It _was _me, wasn't it?"

"Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day… put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older… I know you hate to hear this… when you are ready, you will know."

"Very good answer, Headmaster," Harry muttered.

Dumbledore only chuckled at that.

"I really cannot persuade you to tell me?"

The elderly man shook his head.

"You are aware that this is entirely improper and unjust, right? For you to keep so much from me."

"That, Harry, is a matter of opinion."

Harry sighed, quietly accepting that he wasn't going to get any further. "I am curious about one more thing, though, Headmaster – the mirror."

"Ah," the Headmaster beamed, looking quite delighted at the query. "The Mirror of Erised – it shows a person's greatest desire. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something; took a fair bit of tinkering. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone – find it, but not use it – would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking the Elixir of Life."

"Ah…so that's why it dropped into my pocket…I thought so."

Dumbledore looked thrilled. "You already guessed it? Wonderful, simply wonderful! I am curious, though, as to what happened to the Stone, in the end – I found only sparse remnants of it."

"A stray curse hit it," Harry lied easily, "It pretty much exploded. I hope you're not too disappointed…or Mr. Flamel, for that matter."

"Ah, you know about Nicolas? Do not let it trouble you, dear boy – I had discussed with him the possibility of destroying the Stone, and he is quite content to do so. To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, his wife, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them."

"Indeed," Harry muttered.

"Now," Dumbledore said suddenly, standing up, "Enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets." He glanced up and down the shaky, poorly balanced pile. "Ah! Bettie Bott's Every Flavour Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit flavoured one, and since then I'm afraid I've rather lost my liking for them – but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?"

A sharp warning zinged through the back of Harry's mind when Dumbledore picked up a pale brown bean, and he made to interrupt, but too soon the Headmaster smiled and popped it into his mouth.

Harry grimaced as he choked and said, "Alas! Earwax!"

* * *

Madame Pomfrey, a kind, motherly yet strict woman, had made a bargain with Harry – as long as he didn't press her to let his friends come visit him and rested quietly without making a fuss, then she would let him out in time for the end of year feast the next day, which Harry was very, very excited for. It seemed that in the end, the poor healer was not quite sure how he had managed to convince her, but Harry had only smirked at her; and to his surprise, she shook her head and smirked back.

The day of the feast, Harry was finally let out of the infirmary only a few minutes before it started, due to Madame Pomfrey's insistence on a last minute check-up – Harry, oddly enough, had found himself quite fond of the woman, and wasn't about to cross her more than he already had. Darting out of the infirmary, not even bothering to tie his tie, he burst through the doors of the Great Hall, puffing heavily, only as Dumbledore rose from his seat. The elderly Headmaster raised an eyebrow, but Harry only smirked and went to sit down between Terry and Padma, gleefully admiring the blue and bronze decorations ornamenting the hall.

"Another year gone!" Dumbledore said cheerfully, looking over the suddenly hushed student body. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were… you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts…

"Now, as I understand it, the house cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; in second place, Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two; and finally, in first place Ravenclaw has five hundred and three."

The Ravenclaw table burst out in cheers, some of the students leaping up and shouting in their excitement – Terry, in particular, made a great show of leaping upon Harry and feigning tears of joy. Grin morphing into a scowl as he pushed Terry off of him and onto the floor, Harry glanced around the Great Hall, finding a few at the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables clapping appreciatively – the Slytherin table, he noted, looked quite put off, except for Draco, who simply nodded at him, causing his grin to return full force.

Professor Dumbledore chuckled at the animated display, speaking loudly once again, "Yes, congratulations, Ravenclaw. I would like to note that this year, Ravenclaw has _lost _more points than ever before –"

Nearly everyone at the table glanced knowingly over at Harry, who grinned at them cockily.

"But nevertheless, has managed to win them all back and more, with not only academic prowess but also acts of daring. Yes, congratulations Ravenclaw!"

An applause broke out once again, and the Headmaster smiled and clapped his hands, an ostentatious feast appearing upon the tables as he sat down.

"Blimey, Harry!" Terry exclaimed, shovelling potatoes onto his plate, "They wouldn't even let us go see you – thought you were going to miss the feast!"

"Miss this? No way," Harry said, grabbing the potatoes from Terry.

"We were so worried, all of us," Padma moaned, gripping his arm, "We'd thought, since they wouldn't even let us visit, that you had been grievously wounded –"

Harry shook his head. "Just a bout of magical exhaustion."

"That took you out for three days?" Michael asked dubiously.

Harry only shrugged.

"Honestly, Michael," Lisa said, hitting him on the arm, "He just got out of the infirmary! Don't pester him!"

Michael scowled, grudgingly muttering something that sounded like "left me behind…"

"Well," Anthony said suddenly, a disapproving eyebrow raised, "At least your ridiculous scheme earned Ravenclaw some house points, in the end – you're lucky you didn't get expelled! I was sure you would be, for a while...Terry told me all about –"

"Anthony, Anthony, Anthony," Harry sighed, "I knew I wouldn't get expelled – and Michael, Terry, and Neville wouldn't either, because it would be unfair if they got expelled and I didn't."

"How can you be so sure you wouldn't get expelled?" Anthony snapped.

Harry sniffed pompously. "Elementary, Goldstein, elementary. Everyone just loves me too much."

* * *

Before leaving the feast, Harry had been glomped by Hermione, sobbing into his shoulder about how he was such a "stupid boy," Neville looking on at the uncomfortable scene apologetically, waving slightly with an awkward smile. After escaping Hermione's rant which viciously condemned putting himself at risk and disobeying school rules, he finally managed to escape the Great Hall early, making his way up to Ravenclaw Tower.

As he burst into his dorm, the first thing he did was leap in front of the mirror and grin at his reflection – no sign of Death anywhere, no sinking feeling, no despairing, irrational fear. His next course of action was to dive into his four poster bed and reach for the portrait under his pillow.

"Brat! Damn, it's been days! Where were you!"

Harry chuckled. "Aww...were you worried, Jean?"

The blonde man in the portrait scowled darkly. "Shut up. You're my heir – you can't just go off and die! Now, _where have you been_?"

Harry sighed, swallowing the anxiety that rose up in his chest upon hearing the barely disguised fury in his cousin's voice. "In the infirmary, mostly."

"The infirmary! What happened –"

"Magical exhaustion. I was out for a few days."

Jean let out a shaky breath. "Ok…alright, explain everything. Starting with when you left Ravenclaw Tower."

"Right…well, Terry and Michael figured out what I was doing, along with Neville. So all four of us sneaked off to the third floor corridor…"

"And you let them come?" Jean asked incredulously.

Harry shrugged. "It was more advantageous, in the end – I'm not sure things would have gone over half as well without them. Anyway, we left Michael up top to get help if we were down to long; turns out someone had already got past Fluffy, lulled him to sleep – by music, might I add – and so we went down the trap door, got past some Devil's Snare with an _incendio_….and then there were these flying keys…"

"_Flying keys_?"

"Yeah, weird, right? Professor Flitwick's, I think. Anyway, had to catch one while flying on a broom. There was a giant moving maze, next – we got separated, because only one of us was allowed in at time…Terry made it out way before me, even though I had to use Rhabdomancy! That pissed me off…"

"Bet it did," Jean mumbled.

"Neville got stuck in the maze though, so we went on to the next room, with a troll in it – someone'd already killed it, so we just had to endure the smell. Ugh…it was disgusting, really. We couldn't get past until we opened this muggle lock…"

"A _muggle _lock?"

"Yeah, one of those electric locks with the keypads, the ones you need the codes for…"

"How'd they get it to work right in the middle of Hogwarts?"

Harry shrugged. "Now that I think about it…there were some runes carved on the side – perhaps they figured out a way to make something similar? I don't know…I'm going to try to write to the Ancient Runes professor this summer – I bet it would help with that project Hermione and I are working on. Anyway, it was just a bit of combinatorics to get past; easy, actually. And then there was a room surrounded by some sort of magical fire – you needed a potion to get through, and you had to find the right one using a riddle. Only one person could go through at a time, so Terry and I split up, and I went through to the chamber where the stone was kept."

"_And_?"

"What?"

"What happened next?" Jean exclaimed.

"Well, it was empty, except for something called the Mirror of Erised –"

"Ah, yes…heard of it. Shows you your greatest desire. Pointless, if you ask me."

"You _would _say that, wouldn't you? But I didn't ask you - and I thought it was rather clever. Anyway, the Headmaster said he'd tinkered with it so that it would only give the Stone to someone who'd not use it for their own gain."

"And destroying it to save your own skin didn't count?"

"Apparently not."

"But wait – you said someone else had already come through."

Harry chuckled.

"What?"

"You're going to love this – guess who it was?"

"Who?"

Harry grinned.

_"Who?"_

"Quirrell."

Jean's jaw dropped. "No way! You can't be serious! Damn, the stuttering defence professor? Wow! Why'd he even want the Stone? I mean, except for the obvious reasons…"

Harry's countenance instantly slackened, growing grim. "For Voldemort."

Jean's face morphed into an expression mirroring Harry's. "Wh-what?"

"Turns out he's not quite as dead as people'd like to think…he was possessing Quirrell, somehow – had his face on the back of his head."

Jean grimaced. "Ew…"

"I know, right? Anyway, Voldemort wanted the Stone…"

"What was he like? The Dark Lord?" Jean interrupted, a strange, nervously eager light in his eyes.

Harry froze, before he shrugged uneasily. "I dunno – sort of evillish, a little pathetic, to be honest – wasn't that great," he said quietly, before he spoke up loudly again, "Turns out the whole thing about the Stone being here was really just a trap set by the Headmaster, who already suspected old Voldie never really kicked the bucket – actually, I thought Dumbledore was far more interesting than Voldemort."

"You talked to Dumbledore?"

"Yeah…came to visit me in the infirmary."

"Ok, wait a minute, how did you end up in the infirmary?"

"Er…well, I got pissed off at Voldemort, shouted at him, destroyed the Stone in front of him, and then he got pissed off at me, shouted at me, we had this badass death match, and then I somehow managed to burn Quirrell to death with my bare hands."

Jean blinked. "Wow."

"Yup."

"With your bare hands?"

"Yeah, accidental magic, I thought, maybe?"

"Huh – could be. You said your magic fended him off in the forest? I suppose it might have reacted to your distress and tried to cleanse Voldemort from Quirrell's body…kind of gross, though."

"Yeah, it sort of was. Why does my magic react to Voldemort like that, though?"

"I'd bet my entire Led Zeppelin collection -"

Harry cleared his throat.

"Er, your Led Zeppelin collection that it has something to do with why he couldn't kill you. Did you ask the Headmaster about that, by the way?"

"Yes – he sidestepped the question, though. The only thing I managed to find out for sure was that Voldemort _was _after me for some reason. And that the Headmaster seems to be under the impression that I'm not _old enough_."

"Well, you _are_ still a brat."

"Oi!"

Jean chuckled, and then sat back in his portrait, scratching his chin musingly. "I don't suppose you asked him…Voldemort, I mean…"

"It didn't really come up," Harry replied flatly, before groaning and rolling over onto his pillows. "Bad luck, bad luck…why can't anything just, I don't know – leave me alone? It's like I should have died that night, and life's going to make me pay for getting that lucky for the rest of my sorry days."

Jean shook his head, chuckling even louder. But suddenly, his face grew grim, and his green eyes darkened sombrely. "Now that you know he's out there – and that he's after you – you've _got _to watch your back, brat. I can't have ya dying just yet. If he's gonna be tryin' ta kill ya…"

"Then I'll have to find a way to kill him first."

Jean raised an appraising eyebrow.

"I _don't _like him. Voldemort won't be alive for long, Jean, I'll promise you that."

Jean's eyebrows furrowed deeply as concern sparked in his eyes. "What happened?"

"Wha- nothing happened."

"_Harry._"

"Fine. I…remember what you said about oneiromancy? Well, I think…I think you may have been on to something…I think I got a vision, while I was passed out – of the past."

"Well, what did you see?"

"V-Voldemort's past..."

Jean's countenance sobered, suddenly growing blank – and then was tinted with a visage of grief. "Oh Harry…you didn't…you didn't see –"

"My mother – I saw him murder her," Harry whispered shakily, "I….I felt her die – I saw the light, I felt it snap, I saw her dead face…God, Jean…I wish…I wish that…." He struck the headboard behind him violently. "Apollo's such a damn bastard…sending me visions like that…" His head snapped up toward the ceiling. "Hear that, you pathetic nutjob? Got to start tormenting children now, you that bored!"

"You really shouldn't get in the habit of insulting powerful gods."

Harry huffed, rubbing his stinging eyes furiously. "I'll do as I like."

Jean sighed wearily. "Whatever…just…just don't die doing it."

* * *

It was not long before exam results were announced, with Harry and Hermione settling for an uneasy tie for the first years' top marks. Both received Outstandings on all their exams, but whilst Hermione's mark for History was significantly higher than Harry's (his was barely above an Exceeds Expectations), Harry's potions mark outweighed Hermione's significantly - apparently, all those times he willingly assisted Professor Snape in frightening the poor Hufflepuffs had paid off. Proud of beating Hermione 'Brainiac' Granger at an exam, Harry thoughtlessly named potions as his favourite subject, saying that it was the most brilliant study known to man. Nearly half of the student body fainted when Harry dashed to the head table the next morning and presented Professor Snape with a plate of homemade chocolate-toffee-sprinkle-marmalade flavoured cookies (made with the assistance of Tippy and the other Hogwarts elves), singing to the tune roughly reminiscent of Led Zeppelin's 'Rock and Roll':

"Long live the king of the potions lair!  
May he long be crowned with greasy black hair!  
Praise be to he who scowls and who stalks,  
Lord of all potions, Severus Snape rocks!"

The ensuing silence had been quite awkward for both Harry and Professor Snape, and having gotten that out of his system, Charms returned to being Harry's favourite subject.

All too soon, though, the students' trunks had been packed and stowed away, and then they were being escorted, one fresh, warm June morning to Hogsmeade station, onto the Hogwarts Express. Just before he boarded the train, Harry was shocked when Hagrid barreled up to him, puffing as he presented him with a large leather bound book.

"Hagrid? What's this?"

"Sent owls off ter all yer parents' old school friends, askin' fer photos…knew yeh didn' have any…d'yeh like it?"

Harry had nodded forcefully, shooting Hagrid a meaningful smile before flipping open the cover and barely holding on to the bitter tears that threatened to spill upon a photograph of his mother – smiling, waving, and very much alive. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, he decided; fiery hair like a summer sunset, eyes bright emerald like the grass fields in spring, and a smile that would have made anyone's heart melt.

Harry, against his better judgement, spent the journey back to London with his new found friends and acquaintances – they conversed and laughed over the year's events, made plans for school shopping and study group for the next year, promising to exchange letters over the summer. It was a strange thing, Harry mused as the train swept through the hilly, green countryside – that he, who had always been an outcast, an unloved freak, was now surrounded by others like him, who at the very least were amused by him, and perhaps even thought of him as a friend. It was a curious thing, he decided, having friends, being liked – a rather novel and profound experience, to be actually _wanted_.

Hermione, just before departing with her parents at King's Cross Station, had given Harry her telephone number, so that they could continue to work on their project through the summer; Hermione had been quite thrilled (forgiving Harry of any misconduct concerning his trespassing the third floor corridor) when Harry told her about the muggle-esque lock he had found, suggesting that runes would be able to imitate muggle technology. After bidding his year mates a fond farewell, Harry had summoned the Knight Bus, greeting Stan Shunpike with a grin -

"How was school, 'Arry?"

"I totally rocked that place, Stan!"

- before paying the fare to return to Little Whinging, Surrey.

Which left Harry standing in front of Number 4 Privet Drive, setting his trunk down for a moment and taking in the scenery. It was surreal, he decided – coming back to the little house in the meek suburb, undifferentiated and perfectly ordinary. His initial reaction was conflicted, perhaps even turbulent – disgust with the plainness, the meaninglessness, the blindness of it all; relief to be in a place he knew well, a place that was starkly familiar; sadness at leaving all that he had come to...cherish, love, imbibe so fiercely; anticipation for the freedom that summertime brought.

Whatever it was that he felt, though, it did not stop him from seizing his trunk and dragging it up to the front door of Number 4 Privet drive – a white, polished, pristine slab of treated wood to hide behind – and throwing it open with a violent flourish, grinning as he stepped over the threshold and called out in a loud, cheery voice,

"Guess who's home?"

* * *

_"I had a dream. Crazy dream.  
Anything I wanted to know, any place I needed to go..."_

* * *

Wow! Year one, already over…I sort of flew through that, didn't I? I think that's the quickest I've written anything in my entire life - if only I could produce essays at that rate.

And cheers, all of you, and thanks for reading (*cough*enduringmyinsanity*cough*) thus far!


	16. Of Plots and PartTime Employment

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets any more than I owned Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. And the songs of my favourite bands still don't belong to me.

**AN:** 1. Ah...here we go...posting sooner than I thought I would, on pure impulse. Thanks everyone, for the reviews and ideas – believe me, many sparked a great deal of interest. My heart leapt for joy when I read RRW's nomination of Xenophilius Lovegood for history professor – damn, that would be great! Although, I'm still so torn on the matter... What's also difficult for me, right now, is trying to figure out exactly how cruel Harry can be to Lockhart without crossing the line…you know, without descending into tried and true psychopathy.  
2. A few people have commented on my personification of Death – yes, it's Supernatural inspired. That's my favourite tv series, and I fell in love with their Death the first time I laid eyes on him. So I stole him. Kind of. That being said, you may find a few nods to the Supernatural series as this story progresses.

* * *

**Chapter 16: Of Plots and Part-Time Employment**

"_Back in black  
I hit the sack  
I've been too long I'm glad to be back  
Yes, I'm let loose  
From the noose  
That's kept me hanging about  
I've been looking at the sky  
'Cause it's gettin' me high  
Forget the hearse 'cause I never die  
I got nine lives  
Cat's Eyes  
Abusin' every one of them and running wild..."_

Harry shifted from the place where he lay on the cool, dusty concrete floor of Jean's Hollow, glancing at the portrait that lay across from him, propped up against the record player.

"Voldemort should have just joined a rock band. AC/DC would be good for him - they just keep coming back, and back, and back, and back again. This could be like, his theme song."

Jean snorted. "Yeah, imagine an Aussie Dark Lord!"

Harry burst into a fit of giggles. "I can picture it perfectly – the accent, that'd be great!"

"Cockney would be funny too…."

"Imagine that…" Harry laughed, closing his eyes and sighing. "But I wonder, really, what's so funny about it…"

"Well, he always seemed sort of posh, didn't he? The aristocratic way of speaking just fit. Megalomaniacs are like that, you know."

"Yeah – delusions of grandeur, that's all it was. An orphan boy, just like me –"

Jean quirked an eyebrow.

"And then he went to Hogwarts, like me, and then he somehow became a dark lord, obsessed with power and immortality. I... I wonder how it happened."

"Fear, Harry."

"You think?"

Jean nodded sagely. "Yeah, of course – fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to the dark side, young padawan."

"Shut up, Jean."

"Oi! It's true!"

Harry frowned disconcertedly. "Is it? Cause, you know, the last few months – I've been absolutely terrified; of Death, of dying."

"Well, that –"

"And you know what the worst part was?" Harry ignored him, continuing to rant, "I don't know – I liked it, and I hated at the same time. I hate being terrified, but it makes me feel so alive...but it's still so wrong...and every time I think I'm past being afraid..."

"Hey," Jean said sharply, "Hey, don't sweat it, brat. No one wants to die. Everyone's a little scared of death."

"But why, Jean? I can't accept just being afraid of something, especially death! I hate it, fear...it's weak, and it's infuriating, and I just can't stand it because I can't understand it at all..."

Jean sighed exasperatedly. "If it bothers you so much, then get rid of it."

"But how?"

Jean shrugged. "Dunno."

"Fat lot of good you are," Harry groused, before frowning. "I wonder what time it is…"

"Hey, I'm the dead guy – time don't matter to me."

Harry glanced down at his watch. Eleven hundred and twelve hours, the scorching, dry morning of June twenty-third. Harry had arrived in Surrey about a week ago – he could not help but smirk when he recalled his relatives' horrified faces as he marched into Number 4 Privet Drive that afternoon. The first few days were uneasy; Petunia and Dudley were terrified of him, but Vernon put up a brave front, and seemed to have deceived himself into thinking that he could intimidate Harry with bellowed threats and growls. How wrong he was. Halfway through the week, Vernon had become furious with Harry's indifference to his threats, and had resorted to violence – it was a sharp slap across the cheek, but the force behind the purple-faced, beefy man's blow had knocked Harry into the wall, and then was followed by a sharp punch to Harry's abdomen, which easily knocked the wind out of the small boy and sent him to his knees. Vernon had smacked him before, caned and belted him some, but he had never resorted to raw, furious thuggery - and so Harry snapped. In the end, Vernon sported a broken nose and a bruise on his side, after Harry had tossed against the brick hearth in the den with an impressive manipulation of wandless magic. Petunia and Dudley had gone into hysterics, and suffice it to say, they now did everything possible to avoid the young wizard, and paid no mind when Harry left the house every morning and returned hours later, in the evening.

"My appointment at Gringotts is at twelve," Harry mused. "I suppose I should summon the Knight Bus soon…"

"And how long do you think you'll be gone?"

Harry smirked. "Aw…jealous that you can't have me all to yourself?"

Jean snorted. "You wish."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Anyway, it should only take about a half hour, but I'm heading over to the Daily Prophet office afterward…"

"Looking for the archives on Black's imprisonment?"

Harry nodded. "I need to go over them…and I might do a bit of shopping after, if I have time."

"And when are you meeting with the girl –"

"Hermione. Tomorrow – Professor Babbling sent a reply, and I think it gave me an idea for our project. Her mum's going to pick me up a little after noon."

"Right…I've never met this Hermione girl," Jean mused curiously, "She hot?"

Harry squinted, fighting back a blush. "I dunno, she's just Hermione." He sighed, stretching, proceeding to sit up and reach into his B3, pulling his wand out and placing it beside him, and then drawing out his crystal ball and placing it between his legs.

"Nice to see you finally practicing. You got really lazy about it the last few months."

"I was sort of preoccupied," Harry snapped back, "I just…scrying's supposed to be connected to oneiromancy, so…" He sighed and ran his hands over the ball, sucking in a deep breath when they came to rest in the correct position, causing a sharp zing of magic to crawl up his arms.

"Any new dreams?"

"No, just the same ones."

"Huh, that's gotta suck."

"Shut up Jean, I need to concentrate," Harry moaned as his eyelids began to droop and his breathing and heartbeat slowed, syncing together in a slow, lulling pulse. The light refracting through the ball began to swirl, pulsing slowly with the beat of his heart, gradually gathering and changing colours and forming vague images, pulsing even stronger in the shimmering light. Colours melded together, forming distinct impressions – and slowly, the impressions solidified and became shapes, moving and growing in vague, pulsing movements. Slowly, they came into focus – snippets of his dream, the green light, growing brighter, the rain, growing wetter, louder, a dark, meandering alleyway, growing closer; all of the images simultaneously trying to suck him in, as they slowly defined themselves….

"Harry!"

His emerald eyes snapped open, immediately turning to glare at Jean's portrait.

"Oi! Don't look at me like that, you were gone for fifteen minutes! Fifteen!"

Harry blinked. "I was?"

"Yeah, you were. What the hell were you looking for?"

Harry shook his head, trying to rid it of the leftover haze. "What makes you think I was looking for something?"

Jean snorted. "Nobody gets in that deep unless they're really forcing their consciousness inside, looking for something in particular. You can't fool me, brat. Now spit it out."

"Why? 'Snot any of your business."

"Like hell it isn't! I'm here to help you, ya little dingbat – you've got so much power laid at your feet, that without me, you'd never know what to do with it. You'll hurt no one but yourself keeping secrets – I'm just a dead guy, after all."

Harry sighed, biting his lip with a stubborn scowl, and then relenting. "The dreams – I must be getting them for a reason, Jean. They're clues, pointing me somewhere."

"You know, life isn't just big puzzle to be solved."

Harry scowled. "I know that!"

"Do you?"

"Yes! I just wanted a clearer picture…I've got to find out the truth."

"The truth of what?" Jean said skeptically.

"The truth of everything!" Harry exploded. "Do have any idea how weird...how awful it is, knowing that you should be dead – that your life is filled and defined with lies and tricks, and you don't even know what they are? I don't know what's going on – surviving the killing curse, Voldemort being after me, the Headmaster keeping secrets, Apollo gladly tormenting me with my mother's dead face every night, and knowing that Death could pop up any moment and screw around with me like I'm his personal assistant or something! It's like a bad joke! I'm not going to put up with this, Jean."

Jean pursed his lips. "Ya know, yer a real angry little guy."

"Oh stuff it. You would be too. I don't like not knowing things, and I don't like people messing with me. So sue me!"

"Don't like it, or fed up with it?"

Harry rose to his feet, picking up his wand and slinging his B3 over his shoulder. "Whatever. See you tonight."

* * *

It hadn't taken long for the Knight Bus to arrive, and then drop him near at the Leaky Cauldron. Between Harry's cap and his long hair – Petunia had pestered him about his long, wavy locks looking sloppy and brutish, and so he ditched all plans to cut it – he was easily disguised and made it to Gringotts without being recognized as the famous 'Boy-Who-Lived' – which he always thought was an odd title, because most boys do live, of course.

Harry quite liked goblins, he decided, as he stood idly by the teller, waiting for Griphook, watching the goblin bankers bustle about, absorbed in their work. The creatures' dark, tiny eyes were focused unrelentingly on their business – a noble sentiment, to carry on the work that defines the greatness of your race with dedication and diligence. In fact, he thought, he would have liked to be born a goblin – they seemed quite loyal to each other, and were straightforward, reasonable folk. Most witches and wizards could learn a thing or two from them, Harry idly mused, recalling the oddest of the students and teachers he had come across at Hogwarts.

"I hope you weren't waiting too long, Harry," came Griphook's voice from behind him.

Harry looked down at the dark haired, beady eyed goblin, dressed in a neat black suit, complete with a red bowtie. "Not at all, Griphook. It's nice to see you again. I dig the bowtie, by the way – very sharp."

The goblin nodded gratefully – almost bashfully, if Harry didn't know better. "I took your advice – several colleagues and clients complimented me on it," he said, politely ushering Harry into his office.

"And rightfully so," Harry returned, sitting down in front of the gold gilded desk on a comfy, velvet trimmed, high back chair. "You _do _look dashing, I must say."

Griphook sat down as well, clearing this throat. "Now, down to business." He pushed a small leather bracelet across the desk. "It is a good thing you wrote in your request in April, Harry, the paperwork to get the Ministry's approval was quite tedious, and took some time to go through."

"Oh?"

"Magical transportation for minors is a tricky subject, especially without the authorization of a guardian."

"I see." Harry picked up the bracelet and examined it. "How does it work?"

"The portkey is dual – the password for the backyard of the Leaky Cauldron is 'raido' and the password for the coordinates in Surrey you supplied us with is 'othila'. All you need to do is touch the pendant on the top and say the password."

Harry nodded. "And I have unrestricted use?"

"Yes, for the fee you paid, the Ministry was, by the time the preliminary papers were approved, easily swayed to give the permission."

Harry grinned amusedly. "Got to love bureaucrats, eh?"

"Indeed. Now, was there anything else you needed?"

Harry nodded, tying the bracelet onto his left wrist. "Yes…I wanted to withdraw one hundred galleons –"

Griphook scratched down a note.

"- and I was hoping to ask – could you do some research into the details for the Black vault for me?"

Griphook looked up at him, a curious eyebrow raised.

"I'm planning on doing some research on Sirius Black's sentence and status over the summer – I'd like to know exactly what the ruling on the accounts has been, prospective claims, contents, and court and appeal records. I'm willing to pay you whatever's necessary, but I'd like it done promptly. And discretely. Preferably without the Ministry of Magic's knowing."

Griphook leaned back in his chair, arms crossed and an bemused look on his face. "For the appropriate fee, I will gladly look into it. Do you want to try and claim the accounts?"

Harry was silent for a moment, mulling over his answer. "That's only a secondary concern, contingent on my first. Sirius Black was never given a trial – he's either innocent or guilty…it's anyone's guess, really. If he's innocent, I'll prove it, and have him acquitted. If he's guilty…I want him executed, gone – in the most painful way possible. Either way, I need all the information I can get my hands on. How does three hundred galleons sound for the initial summary?"

Griphook grinned nastily. "Very well, Harry. It'll be done. It's a pleasure doing business with you."

* * *

It did not take long for Harry to traverse Diagon Alley, finding himself standing below the sign that marked the entrance to The Daily Prophet main office soon after leaving Gringotts. The building was quite tidy, professional – it was obvious there was a muffling charm on it somewhere, perhaps in the wards; for though the outside seemed quiet and tranquil on the outside, through the windows, Harry could see obvious signs of vivacity. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and slipped in, entering the bustling newsroom – reporters were deep in discussions, or otherwise fixed on their papers and quills, and in the back, the editor's shouts could be heard. Harry felt quite out of place, just standing there amidst the buzz; it took him a good couple of minutes to pluck up the courage to march to one of the desks, clearing his throat.

The man, Andy Smudgley, if the nameplate was to be believed, didn't notice.

So Harry tried again, louder.

The man sighed explosively and glanced up. "Go away kid."

"Not going to happen," Harry deadpanned. "I need to see the archives."

"Look kid, don't make me call your parents –"

"That would be unwise, Mr. Smudgley, considering necromancy's currently illegal in Great Britain."

That shut the man up.

Harry sighed and placed three galleons on the desk. "Please, don't make a fuss. And don't tell anyone I was here."

The man, seemingly shaken out of his stupor, pawed the gold coins toward himself, and nodded to the right. "Through that door."

Harry nodded gratefully and slipped off into the archive room, unnoticed.

The room was dusty, though not unclean – it had a high ceiling, and the rows and rows of shelves nearly rose to its full height; Harry immediately concluded that it was magic, not sound construction that kept the shelves, nearly bursting with filed Daily Prophet issues, standing. They were sorted by year – going back to 1785 – and so it did not take much searching through the early November issues from 1981 to find several articles on Sirius Black's imprisonment.

"…_Potters...Godric's Hollow…Fidelius Charm…secret keeper, Sirius Black…"_

"_Seen leaving the Godric's Hollow shortly after the murder of James and Lily Potter…"_

"…_accused in the presence of several witnesses of betraying the Potters by Peter Pettigrew…"_

"…_combat…resulting explosion…twelve muggles killed, along with Peter Pettigrew…so violent, that only Pettigrew's finger remained…"_

"_Sirius Black…apprehended, laughing maniacally…."_

"_Convicted of the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve muggles, of giving information about the Potters' whereabouts which lead to their deaths, and for being in the service of He Who Must Not Be Named….sentenced to life in Azkaban without trial…"_

Harry put the last article back on the shelf, leaning his head back against the wall, and closing his eyes…his brain hurt.

He barely registered himself leaving the Daily Prophet office, exiting onto the bustling afternoon crowd of Diagon Alley – he was too busy mulling over what he had read. It wasn't as absurd as he had originally thought that Sirius Black was never given a trial – it seemed quite obvious that he was guilty, and with the Ministry desperate to round up traitors and hostile elements at the time, those with obvious guilt would have been disposed of as quickly as possible. He was seen at the Potters', and then was witnessed duelling with Peter Pettigrew. An explosion resulted, which killed Pettigrew and the twelve muggles present – Harry snorted as he recalled that they weren't even named – and Black was found laughing at the scene of the crime. It all fit perfectly, implicating Sirius Black – the man had a personal connection to the Death Eaters through his family, motive, he was aware of Lily and James's whereabouts, opportunity, he had earned their trust and as an auror, had ready access to Death Eater contants, means, and a perfect exposition of the night's events was handed to the Ministry on a silver platter by Peter Pettigrew, who was murdered a moment later. Peter Pettigrew – he was the other Gryffindor that Professor McGonagall had told Harry about; according to the photo album Hagrid had given him, he was a short, stout, innocent, kind-looking blonde man, also close to the Potters. And the whole thing was contingent on him – his death was what was 'witnessed'; his testimony incriminated Sirius Black. No one questioned it – unlike Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew had no connections to the enemy, no one even suspected him of untruthfulness or unreliability. Even when all that was left was a finger, no other residue…even when all the muggles' bodies were found, intact and identifiable…

Harry's musings were suddenly cut short as a sharp pain stabbed through the back of his head, and a bright light flashed across his vision – like a sharp warning or reprimand. He stopped short, dazed for a moment – before his memory supplied an image; a dark, dingy alleyway, one that he had just walked past. He took a few steps back, and sure enough, he found himself standing in the entrance to a long, narrow, winding alleyway, marked by a sign hanging on the right, reading, "Knockturn Alley." Harry frowned curiously as he stepped in, taking in the dark, over-encroaching alley walls, musing that the alley reminded him of a more sinister, haunted version of Oliver Twist's London. The shops lining the alley's sides were gloomy, intimidating, and rather sketchy looking, all seeming to melt in the shadows, as though they had something to hide. Harry wandered blindly down the alley for a few minutes, before he, for reasons unknown even to him, stopped short. He glanced up curiously, finding himself in front of a fairly large shop, the windows dark and dusty, displaying a collection of dubious looking objects from within, the old, worn sign above spelling the words, "Borgin and Burke: Established 1863".

"_Hello, Mr. Burke…"_

Harry shook away the vivid memory of his vision. "No…it couldn't be…"

And yet, he could not help but push the door open, entering the dingy place with the slightest trepidation, anxiety, and anticipation thudding in his chest. It was a cluttered shop – filled with dusty old artifacts; Harry immediately picked out a prominent looking cabinet, several jars of bones and entrails that appeared to be human, a Hand of Glory, and a collection of eerie, grotesque masks lining the walls. But what caught his eye most starkly was a dagger, lying inconspicuously in the corner, on a shelf – it was silver and short, runes, both Elder Futhark and Greek, trailing down the blade. The grip was molded as a fanged serpent, two inset emeralds as eyes. Harry squinted, trying to translate the runes as he ran his fingers down the blade, relishing the thrill and the sensual purr of the ancient magic trickling from the blade and through his fingers, jolting up his arm.

He suddenly whipped around when he felt a bony hand with a wrenching grip on his shoulder, coming face to face with a scraggly, gaunt-faced old man with long brown hair peppered with grey, leering at him, a sneer on his face.

"You shouldn't be touching things in here, boy…it's been a long time since we had a death, but the last time, the cleanup took hours – blood spatter, left over entrails all over the merchandise…the stains just wouldn't come out. Bad for business, don't you know."

Harry blinked, and then grinned. "I can only imagine. I wonder what sort of curse would do that though…"

The man only barked out an amused laugh.

Harry peered at the man curiously. "Mr. Burke?" he tried.

The man's unfocused gaze snapped back to Harry. "Borgin, the name's Borgin. Now get out of here, boy, if you're not going to buy anything –"

"I'd like to purchase this blade," Harry interrupted, holding Borgin's gaze stiffly, trying to not show his distaste with the man's uncouth dismissal.

The man sneered in an ugly, irksome manner. "Do you even know what that –"

"A blessed dagger, at least from the Dark Ages," Harry interrupted again, voice even firmer, "It was probably blessed by an oracle cult that remained in northern Greece even after the fall of the Roman Empire, most likely during a pilgrimage to Delphi. That much is obvious from the inscription. It was most likely used for macharomancy and extispicy."

"Big words boy, you even know what they mean?"

"Do you, Mr. Borgin?"

The man suddenly let go of Harry's shoulder, grinning rather nastily. "I'll give it to you for three hundred galleons."

Harry scowled, biting back a scathing comment and shaking his head. "No, impossible. It may be old and powerful – but it's also an obscure item. It's not very useful at all, to most."

"And how's it useful to you, little boy?"

Harry resisted the urge to stick out his tongue at the man. "None of your business. I'll give you thirty galleons for it."

The man glowered viciously. "If you're going to be cheap, then get out. Two hundred, no less than that."

Harry bit his lip, eyes narrowed in thought. "Fifty galleons, and twenty hours of free labour."

Mr. Borgin's eyes widened, seeming quite taken aback by the proposition. Stepping back, he crossed his arms, a calculating look flashing over his features. "You want to work here, boy?"

Harry shrugged. "Why not – seems like an interesting place. Besides, I…like the feel of it."

Mr. Borgin fixed him with an appraising leer, eyes roaming up and down Harry's small frame. "Name?"

"…Harry."

The man cocked a scruffy, unkempt eyebrow.

"Just Harry," he clarified.

"Right then," the man sniffed suspiciously. "Two days, show up at ten o'clock sharp, don't be late or I'll skin ya alive."

"Yes sir."

"Now, the down payment for the dagger."

Harry reached into his pocket, following Mr. Borgin to the shop counter and counting out fifty coins aloud as the man quickly wrapped the dagger in brown packaging with practiced nimbleness, careful to touch the item as little as possible.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, taking the dagger and placing it carefully in his B3. But Borgin didn't respond, seeming quite engaged with Harry's face, his pale blue eyes sweeping over every detail of Harry's profile, distant and dazed with reminiscence. "Are you alright, Mr. Borgin?"

The man twitched, startled out of his reverie. "Course," he replied gruffly, "You…you just remind me of another boy – one Burke hired a while back."

Harry's eyes flashed eagerly. "Oh?" he asked slowly, casually. "What was his name?"

Mr. Borgin instantly paled, hands gripping the counter to steady their sudden jittering. "I…I can't quite recall."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Well, good day, Mr. Borgin."

He smiled as he turned away from the nervously preoccupied man, heading back to the rickety, yet heavy shop door, slipping past a grey, tidily dressed old man as he stepped over the threshold. Harry could feel the man pausing in the doorway, glancing at him curiously with unabashed fascination; and looking over his shoulder and meeting the old man's expressionless, dull black eyes, Harry said quietly before he disappeared into the dark alleyway,

"Hello, Mr. Burke…"

* * *

Note: Macharomancy is a form of divination that uses weapons like daggers or swords – usually they're spun or dropped in a circle with runic or astrological symbols at the edges. Extipicy is divination using animal entrails, often of those used for sacrifices.

Anyway, the start of part two – what do you think?


	17. Of Dabbling and Dead People

**Disclaimer:** I own a lollipop. Nothing else matters.

**AN: **1. The conjuration in this chapter is straight out of the Latin version of Clavicula Salomonis, or the Key of Solomon. That being said, if you believe in that sort of thing, I wouldn't advise reading it out loud ;) I took a few liberties with the interpretation of the conjuration, and hellebore is traditionally used for summoning demons, not human spirits, I believe. But what the hell (pun intended) – it's fiction, right? On that note, watch out for the huge Latin blurb, which you may want to skip over. Some may find it annoying, while others may find it amusing; either way, I did it on some inexplicably strong impulse…think of it what you will.  
2. Last but not least - thanks, ye who enjoy, and moreover, ye who review! Reviews are just so fun to read...

* * *

**Chapter 17: Of Dabbling and Dead People**

Harry sighed, listening to the _boring _music playing in Mrs. Granger's car.

"So," she began, more than a little awkwardly, "You're one of Hermione's school friends?"

"That's right."

"From…the boarding school, in Scotland."

"From Hogwarts, yeah."

She nodded, a little more sure of herself. "You live in Surrey, so are your parents…"

"Muggles?"

She nodded.

"No, they were magical. I live with a muggle aunt and uncle, my parents are dead."

Mrs. Granger gasped. "Oh…Hermione didn't mention…I'm so sorry –"

Harry shook his head. "Don't worry about it. They died when I was a baby – I don't even remember much of them."

Mrs. Granger nodded, though her eyes were still soft with maternal empathy. "So how did you meet Hermione?"

"Uh…right before the sorting. We sat in the same boat, on the way to the castle."

"Ah, right…Hermione said that you are sorted into different school houses on the first day. She said that she was sorted into Gryffindor."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Even though Hermione's brilliant –"

Mrs. Granger beamed proudly.

"- Gryffindor's aren't exactly known for their academic prowess – more for boldness and courage. Supposed to be a pretty noble lot, too. Anyway, my house, Ravenclaw, we're sort of the bookworms of the school – so even though we're in different houses, we spent some time together, usually in the library."

Mrs. Granger nodded eagerly. "She told us all about the study group, and how you both tied for top marks. We were so proud! She also said something about a project…?"

"Yeah, that's what we're going to work on. Muggle devices don't work in Hogwarts, because electricity goes wonky around concentrated magic. We want to find a way to get around this, or else replicate electricity with magic."

"That sounds like a very complex and demanding endeavour."

"Oh, it is. It will combine several disciplines, and may take a few years just to plan. But it will be worth it, in the end."

Mrs. Granger smiled at him, pulling into the driveway of a large, tidy house with a simple, but well kept garden lining it. "I can see why she likes you so much."

Harry snorted. "You mean barely puts up with me?"

Mrs. Granger shook her head knowingly, and locked the car doors, ushering Harry up to the front door, and opening it. "Hermione," she called, "Your friend's here!"

Suddenly, the bushy haired girl darted down the stairs, flying over to embrace Harry.

"Oh Harry! I missed you!" Suddenly aware of what she was doing, she drew back, coughing slightly, glaring at her mother when she started snickering.

"Missed you too, even though it's only been a little more than a week," Harry said with a raised eyebrow.

"Well it's a long time to wait, after seeing you every day for nine months!" she snapped.

"True," Harry conceded.

Mrs. Granger smiled between them. "I was planning to head over to Mrs. Welling's place for a while, will you two be alright on your own? There's milk in the refrigerator and cookies on the table, and my pager number's taped to the wall if you need anything."

"We'll be _fine _mum," Hermione said.

"Of course you will," she turned around, heading for the door, "Stay out of trouble!"

Hermione sighed loudly as her mother shut the front door.

"Cookies first," Harry said immediately.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, ushering him into the kitchen.

"It's a nice place," Harry commented, sitting down at the table and grabbing one of the chocolate chip cookies off the plate. "Very...homely."

"I suppose," Hermione said, fetching the pitcher of milk and two glasses. "I've lived here my whole life, so I don't really have anything to compare it to."

Harry nodded.

"So," Hermione started, pouring the milk into the glasses, "Professor Babbling already sent a reply?"

Harry pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. "Yeah, she seemed quite surprised by the letter, but answered quite promptly and enthusiastically, nonetheless."

Hermione immediately snatched the letter out of his hands, eyes promptly gluing themselves to the paper, brow furrowing in unbreakable concentration. It took her only a few minutes for her to finish both pages of the letter – and when she looked up, her brown eyes were positively glowing with excitement. "I only understood half of it, but it sounds brilliant! Combining runes as a sensor and arithmancy as memory to replicate muggle electrical equipment – I assume that's what it's doing, because it's obviously not creating an electrical current…"

Harry nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "Basically, using an arithmantic matrix to hold the code, and some simple charms to determine the binary true/false operation, tiny runestones are used to pick up a person's magical signature when they touch a part of the keypad – the small amount of energy is transmitted to the matrix and then the charms determine the outcome."

Hermione blinked. "You actually understood all that?" There was a tone of jealousy underlying her voice.

Harry shrugged. "I've studied runes for a long time, and some arithmancy as well, so I'm familiar with some of their simple applications. I've only got a general idea of how the system works, nothing definitive."

Hermione _definitely _looked jealous now. "How do you know runes and arithmancy? It's not taught until third year!"

Harry sighed. "I've been reading up on them since I was nine or something – I'm only familiar with a few of their applications, not the theory behind it."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You knew – you knew about magic, back then, before your Hogwarts letter?"

Harry nodded.

"But you said your relatives are muggles!"

"They are, and they hate magic, in fact. The reason I started to learn to control my magic was so that I could torment them properly -"

Hermione's jaw went slack, horrified.

"- you know, not just petty pranks, but actual scariness."

Hermione swallowed thickly, resolving to ignore that last comment. "But _how _did you learn about it in the first place? About real wizards, not just psychics or something?"

"My marmalade sausages told me one morning."

"Harry!"

He sighed exasperatedly. "It's just…well, it's a little difficult to explain, and it's a really long story –"

Hermione opened her mouth to interrupt, but Harry continued quickly,

"And it's private."

Hermione nodded, disappointment evident on her face. "I understand. Then…then you won't be taking Ancient Runes and Arithmancy with me in third year?"

Harry's eyes widened. "Of course I will! I told you, I only know a few applications – I can't wait to learn about the theory behind it all."

Hermione grinned. "Neither can I! I wish we didn't have to wait a whole year…unless…" She eyed Harry pointedly.

"What?" Harry asked through a mouthful of cookie.

"You could teach me what you know."

Harry choked.

"Oh, come on, it's a good idea!"

"I really don't think you'd be interested in what I know."

"I'm interested in everything! Well, everything but those awful curses you always go on about. Honestly! Why would you even _want _to make someone's heart explode by replacing the blood in it with wine!"

"It'd be a tasty way to die...sort of..."

"Don't change the subject!"

Harry sighed. "I only know of runes' and arithmancy's uses in divination, Hermione."

She blanched. "Divination? I heard it's a sort of spotty, wishy-washy practice – why on earth would you be interested in _that_?"

Harry scowled at her, trying not to feel offended. "The problem isn't the art, it's the people who practice it."

Hermione frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that the amount of untalented frauds out there has given divination a bad name, is all."

"Well, the older students I spoke to seemed to think that even the Divination Professor couldn't make a decent prediction if she tried –"

"She's probably a bloody fraud too, old hag."

"Harry!" Hermione scolded. "That's an awful thing to say about a teacher!"

"But it's probably true. My instincts with teachers are usually good - remember Quirrell?"

"That was different!"

"_Anyway_, people seem to think that if they know all there is to know about divination – which isn't really possible – that they can actually use it."

"Well why couldn't thy? That doesn't make any sense!" Hermione scowled.

"Yes, it does. It's in a person's blood, their magic. You're either born with the ability, or you're not. Simple as that."

Hermione looked absolutely horrified. "You believe in all that blood purity talk…?"

"No! Not like Voldemort's followers, of course not, I think it's ridiculous. Honestly, you could make half of the purebloods in our year cry like a baby in a duel. But think of it this way – how could someone born deaf become a great singer? How could a person born lame become a swimmer? There are some things you're born with, Hermione – there are plenty of people who work as hard as you, but will never be as intelligent as you are. I'm not being a prejudiced bigot for saying that, I'm just being honest."

Hermione hung on to his every word, brows furrowed thoughtfully. She nodded slowly. "So…there are some people who are born with a natural affinity for certain types of magic? It's nothing to do with inferiority, or superiority?"

Harry grinned - trust Hermione to accept something that most adult wizards couldn't set straight. "Exactly! Humans with magical abilities all have some sort of ancestral connection with higher, non-human powers, muggleborns too – and this is what gives people different sorts of unique abilities. Divination is an extremely rare ability to have, making any reliable practice very rare."

"But…this isn't common knowledge, is it?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"You can't find this in the Hogwarts library? People don't know about how obscure the art of divination really is?"

"Exactly – couldn't have said it better myself."

Hermione bit her lip. "Then how do you know?"

Harry froze, suddenly realizing his mistake. In his passionate exposition on divination, he had thoughtlessly revealed more than he should have; and Hermione, of course, picked up on it. Would she believe an excuse? Not likely. Would she let it be? Of course not. Could he trust her? He took a deep breath, swallowing the growing lump in his throat. He wanted to. "Can you keep a secret, Hermione?"

"Of course I can."

"No, I mean really – never, ever tell anyone."

She sucked in a deep breath, but then nodded eagerly.

Harry sighed. "Fine…then…I – I'm a Seer, Hermione, a real one." _Wow…that actually felt kind of good…_

Hermione blanched, a calculating coming over her face, but then laughed lightly. "Oh, Harry, you had me going, for a while…"

Harry only shook his head.

She froze, her eyes meeting his bright, sincere ones. "Oh…oh. You're telling the truth? You…you can see the future." Shock and the slightest incredulity were evident in her voice.

"Not just the future – the past, the present too. Divination isn't seeing the future – it's harnessing the transcendent, the divine, and witnessing it."

A troubled look crossed over Hermione's face. "But…but how's that even possible? You can't just…it doesn't make any sense…and what's the theory behind it? How can you be sure everything you See is true?"

Harry sighed. "It's…it's complicated, alright. And...it's sort of private. Big family secret, and all that."

Hermione appeared to be somewhere between being understanding and being indignant. "But I…I don't…."

"Look, how about a demonstration?" Harry suggested, grinning uneasily.

Hermione's round, brown eyes widened. "Really? You'd show me?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Sure. I've been meaning to actually practice on someone." He pulled the Minor Arcana out of his back pocket. "I still can't do this properly – sifting both decks together, so you'll just have to settle for this."

"Are those…tarot cards?" Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry smirked. "Special ones. Now, cut the deck, and as you do, think about your past."

"My past?"

"Yeah – I thought it would be best for me to do a reading on your past, because you could verify it right away. It won't be an actual spread – I'll just pull out three cards, and interpret from that."

Hermione nodded, taking the cards. "Why three?"

Harry shrugged. "Three is often believed to be a number of completeness – the Trinity in Christianity, a sacred number to the Norse…." He gestured for her to continue.

She cut the deck, and handed it back to Harry, who immediately began to shuffle it. Hermione looked on curiously, enthralled by his smooth, focused motions, watching intently and analyzing his movements as the cards the cards flowed through his fingers and into each other – she jumped when he suddenly stopped, placing the deck on the table and dealing three cards face down.

He flipped over the first card, revealing the nine of swords. "It means grief, loss, despair – associated with death, often." His hand drifted over to the next card, turning over the ten of cups. "Happiness, fortune – usually a symbol of family and perfect love." His hand moved over to the last card, which he turned over to reveal the seven of wands. "A card of ambition – of holding onto one's standing, position, or advantages, and fighting for it…it symbolizes determination. On the other hand, it can also symbolize guilt, desperation, and insecurity." He did not lift his gaze from the cards, breathing deeply before he shut them, and leaned back in his chair, brows knitted slightly in concentration. "You…very early in your life, you, or your family, experienced loss – a death…perhaps of a sibling?…but you had a good early childhood – your parents loved, no, love you unconditionally, nourishing you and encouraging you to grow. But they weren't around as often as you would have liked, and when they were around, you were desperate to please them. It carried over to school; you didn't have many friends, and were determined to show your worth by flaunting your intelligence – you made sure that you were recognized for your intellect, and always worked very, very hard to keep it that way." He opened his eyes, uneasily taking in her shocked face – her mouth hung open, slack, her eyes round and wide, vulnerably, sincerely exposed.

He cleared his throat slightly. "Er…how did I do?"

She blinked, snapped out of her daze. "I…" her voice cracked, choking slightly as she blushed heavily. "My twin sister…she was stillborn. And the rest of what you said – I…I was always at the top of my class. My parents were always so proud…I loved that, I really did….I guess…I guess I really was desperate for approval."

Harry bit his lip, shifting uneasily. "Sorry – I suppose that was rather inappropriate of me, invading your privacy like that."

Hermione shook her head forcefully. "No, it's alright. I wanted it – and I believe what you said." She smiled encouragingly. "You're good at it – you really do have gift, you know. I don't suppose you'd have any advice for my future…?"

Harry smirked. "Sure, but I'll be charging a fee."

She scowled and slapped him. "You can forget it then. I'm not paying to know something that I'll find out eventually on my own."

Harry laughed. "Good answer. Very…Gryffindorish."

"I hope there wasn't a hidden insult in there somewhere…"

Harry shook his head. "There isn't. Now, about our project…"

Hermione jumped. "Oh! I'd forgotten all about that! That's why you came in the first place!"

"Well, that, and the cookies."

"You didn't know there'd be cookies," Hermione pointed out.

"I Saw it in a dream," Harry said airily, smirking.

Hermione glared at him suspiciously. "Sure. Now – should we try to use this system Professor Babbling described? Or are we going to actually try to generate electricity so we can use normal muggle devices without altering them?"

Harry's brow furrowed musingly. "I…I think we need to do more research first – you know, to get a clearer picture of what we're dealing with."

Hermione nodded. "I agree. We need to research both arithmancy and runes, as well as some charms theory. And we should really do some research on electromagnetism – my parents have a lot of books on the sciences, so that shouldn't be hard."

"Right, so – I'll do some more research on arithmancy and runes, and you can take care of electromagnetism…I was always really good at math, in primary school, but science wasn't really my favourite subject. Bloody teacher never let me blow anything up..."

Hermione sighed and shook her head.

"Anyway, you should familiarize yourself with some basic runeology, as well – I'd try the library, for starters."

Hermione nodded eagerly. "Then we can meet again, and compare our notes, then we can make an outline of our ideas, and then…"

* * *

Deep in conversation, Harry and Hermione barely noticed when Mrs. Granger returned home at quarter past four. She literally had to pry the two away from each other, and both children looked disappointed when she informed them it was time for Harry to leave. Before allowing Harry to shut the car door, Hermione had made sure to lecture him on taking clear, concise notes, as well as creating an unbiased evaluation of any theories he came across. Harry reluctantly agreed.

Instead of being driven back to Privet Drive Harry requested that Mrs. Granger drop him at the gardening store. While she seemed very confused at the question, she acquiesced, letting Harry off at a small greenhouse outside of Surrey. There, Harry purchased a packet of hellebore seeds before port-keying back to Jean's Hollow.

The blonde man in the portrait visibly jumped when Harry materialized in the room, causing Harry to smirk.

"Damn! Forgot all about your new toy!" He squinted, noticing the small packet in Harry's hand. "Wha's that?"

Harry glanced down at the seeds. "Hellebore seeds."

Jean blanched. "Hellebore."

Harry sat down and nodded.

"What're you gonna use that for?" he asked warily.

Harry picked up his B3, beginning to shuffle through it, searching for something. "I was wondering, Jean, what you could tell me about necromancy."

Harry could easily tell, without glancing up, that the portrait's glare was furious. "It's dangerous, that's what. And illegal, for a reason. You're nowhere _near _ready to attempt something like that! You –"

"Jean," Harry interrupted. "Don't worry, I'm not planning on raising the dead." He grinned slightly, pulling a matchbox and a small silver bowl out of the bag.

Jean raised an eyebrow. "Good. You've really got everything in there, don't you?"

Harry shrugged. "I was wondering about spirit invocation, in particular. I've read some of the texts in your trunk, and apparently it's not nearly as risky as corporeal necromancy –"

"But still far more dangerous than any other method of divination you could attempt. One little mistake…"

"But that's actually what my question was about."

Jean frowned curiously.

"What would happen, for example, if you tried to summon the spirit of someone who wasn't dead?"

Jean blinked. "Nothing. Nothing would happen. The spell would utterly and completely fail, as though you had mumbled a bit of nonsense and lit some dandelions on fire. There are no invocations I know of geared toward ripping a soul out of someone's living body. Only the killing curse can do that."

Harry nodded. "Right, then you've got nothing to worry about."

"Woah, woah, woah, wait a second! What the hell're ya talkin' about?"

"Peter Pettigrew."

"What?"

"I'm talking about Peter Pettigrew."

"Sorry, I'm so not gettin' this…."

Harry sighed. "Long story short, Sirius Black's conviction is pretty much contingent on the truthfulness behind the demise of Peter Pettigrew. I need to see if he's really dead, and if he is, I need to question him – so I'm going to summon his spirit."

"No, no you're not. What did I just say about necromancy? Were you even listening?"

"Of course I was listening. But here's the thing, Jean, I really don't think Peter Pettigrew is dead – in fact, I'm somewhere around eighty percent sure he's alive."

"Eighty," Jean deadpanned.

"Well…more like eight-two point five…"

Jean sneered. "And what makes you say that?"

"He was killed in an explosion, Jean – no one _actually _saw him die. And all that was left was a finger – no teeth, bones, limbs, or even ash. And get this – no one else who died in the explosion was disintegrated."

Jean frowned. "That's ….suspicious. But not enough to risk something like this. Sorry, brat, not going to happen -"

Suddenly, the table in the middle of the room flew into the wall, and on the other side of the hollow, a window shattered. Jean started, his gaze snapping towards Harry, whose eyes were alight with a cold fury.

"Yes, it is, Jean. Sirius Black is my godfather and my cousin – if he's innocent, then I will have him acquitted, no matter what. In fact, I can't think of anything I want more right now. But if he isn't...then I'll make sure he's a dead man, one way or another."

Jean stared at him, unnerved and conflicted, for a good few minutes, before sighing. He began, voice stiff and lecturing, "Necromancy is different from every other form of divination – not only does it draw on Apollo's and the Fates' powers, but Death's as well. The power behind magic is Will – without it, any spell will either fail or backfire. The more powerful the spell and the caster, the greater the chance of a backfire. The magic of divination works by directly offering one's will and mind to the gods, and opening it up for manipulation – if one's will is sincere and strong, coinciding with the information requested, then appropriate knowledge will be granted." He paused. "But it's different with necromancy – you're offering your Will to Death (in the invocation, you use another deities power to plead for his presence)…which forms a paradox. Death is the weakness of every man, and saps away the Will – if this cannot be overcome in some manner, and Death is not satisfied, then one of several things could happen: failure, the spell could completely fail, leaving you magically exhausted, possibly near death or permanently weakened; Death could take the caster's soul as payment instead; or, the Will could be too weakened by the time the spell completes, and the caster will be too weak to command what they have summoned…this usually results in being eaten or possessed. The risk is least for summoning the body of an animal, greater for summoning a normal spirit, even greater for summoning a human body, and greater than that is summoning human body with its magical core and primal Will intact. The greatest risk occurs when summoning demons."

Harry was silent at that, his face gone pale, his eyes fixed on the grey wall in front of him as he endeavoured to keep his hands from shaking.

"Do you think you can do that? Overcome Death and plead with him with a pure, confident heart to grant you what you ask?"

_No…no, no, no, NO! _Harry's mind screamed, but to no avail. "Yes," he replied hollowly.

Jean swallowed. "There'll really be no talking you out of this, will there?"

Harry shook his head. "No."

"You sure you don't want to...maybe...wait? Prepare?"

"I have everything I need here."

"You know what the risks are, Harry," Jean pleaded, "It's not worth it –"

"It is."

Jean sighed. "Fine…it's not like I can stop you – but if you're going to do this, you'll damn well do it properly. You'll follow my instructions _exactly_."

Harry nodded determinedly.

"Good. You got a copy of The Key of Solomon?"

Harry nodded, reaching into his B3 and drawing out the old, heavy, tattered book.

"Ok, go to the last part of book one, on Pentacles. Right…now find the first pentacle of Mercury."

Harry flipped through the pages, eyes coming to rest on one depicting a symbol below a short paragraph. "The first pentacle of Mercury – it serveth to invoke the spirits who are under the firmament."

"It's a simple, general, but powerful invocation circle. You'll be drawing it in your own blood."

Harry blanched. "But why? Pentacles don't need to be blood –"

"_Because_," Jean interrupted, "It's more powerful that way, and deities tend to cut you more slack when you offer your own blood. Now, are you going to get started? It's Wednesday, so the ritual needs to be done by…about six."

Harry sighed, pulling out the pocket knife in his back pocket – one of the items he had stolen from Vernon out of spite over the years – and sliced into his hand, dipping his fingers into his blood and drawing the pentagram on the dusty concrete floor, and then the first circle around it. He dipped his fingers in the blood gathering in his palm once again, drawing the five symbols between the arms of the pentagram, and then the second, larger circle around the first. Between the circles, and at each vertex of the pentagram, he drew five more symbols. As he finished, he drew back to appreciate his artistic abilities.

"Drip some of that blood into that silver bowl now."

Harry frowned, but nevertheless, applied pressure around the wound, causing the crimson liquid to well up, flowing from his hand and staining the silver. Once the bottom of the bowl was coated by a thin layer of blood, Harry retrieved some bandages from his B3 and wrapped his hand up.

"Good…now, mix in the hellebore seeds."

Harry ripped open the packet, pouring the seeds into the bowl, swirling his finger about, causing the two substances to mingle thoroughly.

"And now light a couple of matches and lay them inside. Right…don't burn yourself! Good…" Jean sighed. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Harry nodded assuredly.

Jean sighed again, and then closed his worried eyes, brow furrowed as he began to mumble something rapidly.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Praying to Saint Michael – he's the angel of the hour of Rana on Wednesdays, I believe. And Saint Uriel – according to some traditions he's the archangel of Wednesdays."

"You're…praying…?"

"Yup."

"_You're _praying?"

"You'll need all the luck you can get."

"I'm thrilled you have such confidence in me."

Jean scowled. "Just turn back to page twenty-eight. And make sure to insert the spirit's name at the beginning."

Harry flipped through the pages, and then blanched. "It's so long! I've seen much shorter rituals than this one…"

"Use this one," Jean said adamantly. "It's safest, alright? A tried and true beginner's method."

"It's Judeo-Christian."

"Duh, it's from the Key of _Solomon. _Which makes it safer – invoking Judeo-Christian powers is much safer, when possible, than invoking others, namely Greek and Norse, because historically, they're less petty and less likely to screw around with your contacting Death."

"Right," Harry sighed, setting the silver bowl, from which thick, greyish smoke was pouring out, in the middle of the pentacle, before glancing down at the text, pronouncing carefully, "Conjuro vos Spiritus Peter Pettigrew's, et adjuro per infinitum verbum quo cuncta creata sunt, cum dixit Deus fiat et facta sunt, conjuro te et requiro te, adjuro vos qui ibidem extra circulum estis, quod visibiliter appareatis per bonitatem Dei, qua Deus hominem ad imaginem suam creavit, et vos per justitiam propter Vestram superbiam damnavit et ejecit de Caelo, et per justitiam qua primos nostros parentes salvavit, per misericordiam et Virginitatem et humilitatem Mariae sacratissimae Virginis Matris Domini nostri Jesu Christi, et per justitiam qua locis summis vestris spoliavit et cruciavit, ut mihi de quesitis à Vobis per me fideliter dicatis, conjuro vos O Sapientissimi Spiritus per obedientiam quam superioribus vestris adhibere tenemini, et per hoc Sacro Sanctum nomen Tetragrammaton veraciter servetis obedientiam mihi virtute hujus Sanctissimi nominis, in quantum permissi estis, celeriter faciatis, et si poteritis, immediate recedentes per aspersionem sanguinis Jesu Christi alium vel alios adducatis qui potestatem habent et scientiam ut stetis firmiter, et non in cutiatis mihi timorem, nec mihi noceatis, sed veraciter absque fraude ad me veniatis, ita prope, ut non sit spatium inter vos, et nos amplius quam duodecim pedum, et mihi respondeatis fideliter de singulis rebus quas voluero, et sine quacunque fraude vel simulatione meum desiderium veraciter et videliter ad implete, ipso praestante cujus virtute et Sapientia Salomoni peririssimo vos sibi obedientaliter subjugavit, et hoc auctoritate illius, qui imperat, qui sine fine vivit et regnat et Conjuro vos O Sapientissimi Spiritus per obedientiam quam Virtute hujus semper benedicti nominis Dei Tetragramaton Deo et mihi fecistis, et per eiusdem ineffabilem nominis potentiam, et per Michaelem Archangelum qui Daemones subjecerat infernales, et per annunciationem Beatae Mariae Virginis, Matris Domini nostri Jesu Christi, et per ejus nativitatem, passionem, mortem, est resurrectionem, per ascentionem, et lachrymas beatae Virginis Mariae, et per scissuram Veli templi in ejus morte, et per omnia, quæ unquam facta fuerunt, in Caelo et in terra, et inferno, ut mihi jam de omnibus quae interrogavero à Vobis sine fraude, timore et mendacio qualicunque mihi fideliter respondeatis, ut cantus in meis quaestionibus effectus, ipsi summo Deo, Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto uni Deo, vivo et vero laudes referam et gratiarum actiones Praestante spectabili Trinitate, qui vivit, unus Deus est, et erit in aeternum, Amen."

The faint light in the silver bowl flickered slightly and then was snuffed out, and the hellebore-blood mixture began to sizzle, along with Harry's magic – but suddenly, it all went silent, and still.

Both Harry and Jean held their breath a few moments longer, before blinking, shifting slightly.

"It didn't work…" Jean mused. "The connection wasn't even made…"

Harry grinned. "And you know what that means – Peter Pettigrew is alive."

* * *

When Harry woke the next morning, he felt like something grudgingly brought back from the dead. The previous night, after finding proof the Peter Pettigrew was alive, Jean went and spoiled his triumphant mood by pointing out that if he wanted any answers, Pettigrew would have to be _found_. At first, Harry thought this would be easy – he could just use the same locator spell Jean had used to find him – but then he discovered that most reliable locator spells required the blood of the person to be found (or a relative), and on top of that, were illegal.

Thus, Harry found himself quite preoccupied and not tired at all – and then, when he finally dozed off, his sleep was more than a little disturbed. Now, wakened by the sound of the Dursleys in the kitchen, he blinked blearily, hand reaching for his glasses, which sat upon the photo album he kept beside his bed at all times.

"Harry…" he could hear Jean's voice, calling softly. "Better get up – it's your first day on the job…"

Harry's eyes snapped all the way open, and then to his watch, which read nine hundred and twenty hours. He swung his legs around, off the tiny bed in his cupboard, hissed the password to his trunk, and began to rifle through his belongings.

"Thanks for reminding me…I almost forgot," he mused, pulling out the white button-up from his Hogwarts uniform, along with one of his tidier pairs of black jeans.

Jean chuckled. "What are big cousins for? Aw…my little coz, off to his first job."

Harry scowled as he buttoned up his shirt, and then reaching back into the chest, pulling out a hairbrush.

"Ooh…he's even combing the rat's nest – this job must be pretty important to you."

"Of course it is," Harry said, running the brush through his resistant locks. "It's quite the place, really – I'll learn a lot, both about the job and other things…"

Jean raised an eyebrow. "If you say so."

"I do." Harry then began to braid the curly strands, fastening them tightly in the back. "How do I look?"

"Like you're going on a date," Jean replied immediately.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I suppose that's acceptable. I'll see you in a few hours."

"Right. Good luck – don't kill any customers!"

Harry smirked and touched the pendant on his wrist, intoning, "Raido."

He felt the familiar tugging sensation of the portkey, closing his eyes, only opening them when he felt his feet touch the ground again, stumbling slightly. Looking around, he found himself in the backyard of the Leaky Cauldron; but instead of proceeding into Diagon Alley, he went back into the building, marching through the back door and up to the counter.

"Tom?"

Said elderly man spun around, eyes widening when he saw Harry. "Blimey, Mr. Potter! It's an honour to see you here again!"

Harry smiled. "I was hoping that you could fix me with some breakfast – some bacon and eggs perhaps?"

"Oh, of course Mr. Potter! Take a seat, and I'll go fetch your breakfast."

Harry nodded, taking a seat at the counter and glancing around the pub. There were a few quiet customers seated down in the corner, but otherwise, the place was empty; it had not changed at all since the previous year – indeed, Harry mused, it probably hadn't changed much in many years, considering the décor. Most of the paintings on the wall seemed quite old, and the furniture and light fixtures were clearly antique; the walls were cracked and worn in places, cobwebbed in the corner. And yet, Harry could not help but take note of the friendly atmosphere.

Suddenly, a scrumptious smelling plate was set in front of him, startling him from his musings.

Harry grinned at the greasy, seasoned bacon and eggs on the plate. "Thanks Tom, looks delicious." He shovelled some into his mouth and moaned.

"Glad you like it," Tom said, smiling toothlessly. "If I may ask, how was your first year at Hogwarts?"

"You may," Harry said through a mouthful of bacon, "It was very eventful. Long story. Though, I suppose, I could say that I started the year being sorted into Ravenclaw, and finished tied for first for the highest marks in my year."

Tom looked absolutely thrilled. "Oh, you don't say! Ravenclaw? Top marks? Brilliant, Mr. Potter, brilliant!"

Harry fought down a blush and only shrugged, washing down his last bite of bacon with the glass of milk Tom had brought him.

"And you're looking mighty handsome today – meeting someone special, perhaps?"

Harry shrugged again. "I suppose you could say that." He glanced down at his watch. "In about fifteen minutes, in fact – I really should get going. How much do I owe you?"

Tom started. "Oh, ten sickles should do it."

Harry reached into his pocket, producing the appropriate number of silver coins and laying them on the counter. "Thanks for the meal, Tom." He slipped off his seat.

"Oh, anytime, Mr. Potter – it was an honour, an honour!"

Harry chuckled as he made his way back into the backyard, reaching over and tapping the correct brick, watching the bricks fold apart, revealing the thin, but lively morning crowd in Diagon Alley.

Weaving his way through the bustling early morning shoppers, Harry did his best to remain inconspicuous as he slipped down into the dark, narrow passage that was Knockturn Alley, ignoring the various dubious characters leering at him from the shadows. Ere long, he found himself in front of Borgin and Burke's shop once again, and stopped in front, taking a deep breath and straightening his shirt before he marched through the front door.

He glanced around the quiet, shadowy shop, taking a moment to admire a few of the more obscure iron torture devices in the corner. "Mr. Borgin?" he called softly.

"You're early," came an oily voice from behind him.

Harry spun around, finding Mr. Borgin leering at him from behind the counter. Harry's lips twitched. "Better than being late."

Borgin looked over him appraisingly. "Indeed." But then the man froze, eyes suddenly fixed on Harry's forehead. "That –"

Harry subconsciously reached up, finding his bangs swept to the side, revealing his scar. He glanced up at Mr. Borgin uneasily.

"Harry," the man whispered, "Harry _Potter._"

"Yes," Harry replied blankly.

The man quirked an eyebrow, glaring at Harry piercingly. "No matter. You work hard, and you could be Albus Dumbledore for all I care."

Harry nodded gratefully.

"Now, best get started. As you are to be employed here at least temporarily, you should know exactly what you're doing. This shop was established in eighteen sixty-three, by myself and Caractacus Burke, my partner – it offers confidential valuation service for unusual and ancient wizarding artefacts, such as may have been inherited by the best wizarding families."

Harry's eyes were starkly focused on Mr. Borgin as he nodded firmly.

"In other words, we research and outline the value of antique and rare magical objects for an appropriate fee, and also buy and sell said artifacts; we do not distinguish between the uses and 'legality' of these artifacts – we simply deal with them according to their value. As I just stated, our services are confidential." He leered at Harry. "Snitching to the Ministry will get ya skinned alive, Boy-Who-Lived or not."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now, you can come in for a few hours every second day; your duties will be keeping the shop tidy –"

Harry grimaced as he glanced around the dusty, unkempt place.

"- managing the shop when I'm out, aiding customers and dealing with simple transactions." He pulled out an enormous, bursting leather bound book from behind the counter. "This is the inventory. Each object has a tag with a number attached to it, referencing to this inventory. In the inventory, you will find the price we paid for the object, its approximate value, what we would like to sell it for, its uses and description, and its legal status. I expect you to be discrete and insistent when you make sales – NEVER lower the price for a customer more than fifteen percent. When you make a sale, you cross the item out, fill in a receipt for the customer, and write out a copy in here." He produced a much smaller logbook. "Understood?"

Harry nodded, mind furiously working as he filed away everything Borgin said.

"Now," Borgin continued, "Don't try to buy anything when I'm not present, and if any of the customers give you trouble, simply order them to get out, and the wards will throw them out."

Harry blinked. "That's rather brilliant."

Borgin sneered. "Yeah, well, we have our share of unpleasant, unreasonable clients – extra security measures are necessary. Now, everything clear?"

Harry took a deep breath, silently running through everything Mr. Borgin had told him. "Yes sir."

"Good. You can start by sweeping."

* * *

It took a good half hour to sweep the floor – weaving between the tables and merchandise, making sure to sweep up all the dust. Afterwards, Borgin had him start on dusting.

While the work was indeed boring and somewhat degrading, it gave Harry a chance to familiarize himself with the shop, especially when Borgin went to do some work in the back. For the most part, Harry's shift was eventless – he took a short reprieve to fetch some lunch for him and Mr. Borgin around noon, and then returned soon after, being asked to take a break from dusting and polish the counter. It was not until fifteen minutes before the end of Harry's shift that a customer entered the shop – an elderly woman wrapped in richly embroidered black robes, her greying black hair pinned behind her neatly. She entered the shop with a graceful gait, with an air of familiarity, but seeing Harry polishing the counter, she suddenly froze.

"Pollux…" she whispered hoarsely.

Harry blinked, not quite sure what to say to that.

"Ah, Miss Black – it's been too long," Borgin's oily voice came from behind, the man emerging from the shadows of the back room.

The woman, Miss Black's gaze snapped toward him. "Borgin, who is this boy?" she demanded.

"Why, he's our new employee – Harry Potter," Borgin said, grinning subtly.

Understanding dawned on the woman's face, as she turned to Harry, a delicately sculpted eyebrow raised, regal curiosity drawn over her features. "James Potter's son?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Harry replied quietly, curiosity evident in his voice also.

"James Potter was the son of my sister, Dorea," she stated neutrally. "He was a spoiled, self-righteous brat, if I remember correctly – just like his father."

Harry choked out a laugh at the description of his father and paternal grandfather, before frowning thoughtfully. "Then you must be…Cassiopeia Black." During his research at Hogwarts, Harry had read some genealogies concerning the old pureblood families – he had been surprised to find a number of living, though distant relations through the Black family, including one Draco Malfoy - who had been rather appalled by that fact.

The woman smiled slightly, as an eager, calculating look overcame her pointed, defined features. "Indeed." Her eyes drifted over to Borgin. "You wouldn't mind, Borgin, if I borrowed the company of this young man, for a time?"

Borgin shook his head. "His shift's almost done anyhow." He looked over to Harry. "You're free to go – be here Saturday at the same time."

Harry nodded gratefully. "Thank you Mr. Borgin. I'll see you Saturday." He glanced up at Cassiopeia expectantly.

She nodded at him. "Come along, then."

As they left Borgin and Burke's, striding down the alley at a steady, quick pace, the elderly woman began,

"I must say, I am not impressed that a great-nephew of mine would be working like a common shop-boy at Borgin and Burkes, of all places."

Harry swallowed. "I'm looking for something there. Something important. There are worse things than menial labour. Like brussel sprouts. And dead trolls." He shivered.

"Indeed," the woman drawled amusedly, "You are a difficult young man to find, Mr. Potter. One would think you were hiding in a cave in Brazil or something like that."

"Please, call me Harry. But I'm not sure what you mean."

"After your parents' demise, a number of pureblood families connected to the Potters tried to gain custody of you – my niece, Walburga, and her father Pollux were at the forefront. However, the Ministry was very closed mouthed about your whereabouts," she said distastefully.

"The Blacks wanted to adopt me even though I'm a half blood?"

Cassiopeia raised an eyebrow, scoffing airily. "There are much worse things, Harry, than being a half blood – after all, it obviously did not affect your magical prowess, if rumours are to be believed," she said pointedly.

Harry did not reply to that, but asked instead, "Why did you ask me to come with you?"

Cassiopeia hummed thoughtfully as they halted. "I originally went to Borgin and Burke's to exchange one of my late brother Pollux's old books for an item I have been interested in for some time…the entrails of a rather infamous dark lord of the seventeenth century – but it turns out I found something far more interesting – a Potter working on the magical black market. Please hold onto my arm tightly."

Harry frowned but did so without a second thought, and was suddenly startled when the sensation of being squeezed through a small tube came over him, leaving him standing in the entrance hall of a dark, dingy house.

"Y-you just apparated," Harry choked out, instantly recognizing the signs of the magical method of transportation, and barely able to resist the urge to vomit as he took in his surroundings frantically.

"I did."

"You just kidnapped me!"

"I did no such thing," the woman sneered, "You held onto my arm willingly."

"Yeah, but I didn't know what you were going to do! I did so on false pretences – false pretenses that you perpetuated," he said, pointing at her accusingly.

"I thought it was quite obvious," she sniffed. "And don't point, it's undignified."

"Undignified my arse! You think it was obvious? You would, wouldn't you – getting a bit senile in your old age! Mistaking me for someone who's dead, and then kidnapping me!"

"Are you calling me old?" Cassiopeia snapped.

"You are!"

Both of them glared at each other for a good two minutes, before they both burst out in raucous, cackling laughter.

"I have no idea why this is so funny…I just got kidnapped…" Harry managed between his chuckles.

The elderly woman smirked at him.

"Well, where did you kidnap me to, then?"

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London," Cassiopeia said.

"Aunt Cassie? Is that you?" called out a voice suddenly.

Cassiopeia followed the voice, Harry behind her, toward the stairwell, stopping in front of a rather large, nearly life-sized portrait of another black haired woman.

"I brought a guest, Walburga," Cassiopeia said, "James Potter's son." She gestured toward Harry, who stepped forward cautiously, bowing respectfully.

"James Potter?" the portrait sneered, "Blood-traitor filth! Scoundrel, corrupting my –"

"Walburga," Cassiopeia interrupted firmly, "This is the boy you wanted to adopt – Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter," the portrait echoed in a whisper, "The boy who defeated the Dark Lord." There was a wistful look on her face.

"I'm sorry," Harry began uneasily, "I was under the impression that the Black family supported the Dark Lord."

"We do," Walburga's portrait snapped, "Ridding our world of mudblood filth, blood-traitors and scum who have no respect for the old ways! He was right, what he said; the Dark Lord said he would do what no one else would –"

Cassiopeia looked down at Harry. "The Dark Lord commanded a charisma and confidence – as well as a knowledge of the old ways that the old houses had not seen in years."

"So powerful!" Walburga exclaimed, "Terrible, and great! He struck fear into the hearts of all those snivelling fools at the Ministry, the filthy mudbloods, blasphemous blood-traitors too!"

"But in the end," Cassiopeia interrupted, "He killed more purebloods and halfbloods than mudbloods and muggles. Both at his own hand and for the sake of his uncompromising ideals." She shook her head sadly. "In the end, the Dark Lord would betray everyone but himself."

"My sons," Walburga moaned, "He took my sons from me…my beautiful baby boys, my only hopes, gone…"

"Blood comes first," Cassiopeia concluded, "It took us too long to realize that that means that family comes first, and should be protected at all costs. We have paid dearly for this."

Harry glanced between the two women, finally nodding in understanding, closing his eyes in deep thought. Was that really what the war came down to? It wasn't some grand battle between good and evil like it was described as in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_? Was it really just a society trapped between two paradigms? Torn between the evils of the old and the new? It was…a civil war, a failed revolution. He opened his piercing, vivid green eyes slowly, fixing them on the portrait in front of them. "I am very sorry for your loss, Lady Black."

Walburga sniffled slightly. "What a sweet boy…if only my Sirius would have been so respectful, ran off like a blood-traitor Gryffindor hooligan, he did, ungrateful boy… he was always calling me awful things like old hag, and wicked bitch…he never called me _Lady Black._ What a cute, sweet little boy you are," she crooned, as Harry shifted awkwardly.

Cassiopeia sighed. "Are you alright then, Walburga, with him?"

The woman in the portrait looked over Harry appraisingly. "Do you go to Hogwarts, boy?"

Harry nodded.

"And what house are you in?" she asked primly.

"Ravenclaw," Harry replied cautiously.

"And you do well?"

"Top marks in my year."

"Excellent. And how do you hold up in a fight?"

"I don't fight. I curse people, and they never know what hit them."

The old woman cackled gleefully. "Wonderful, wonderful! And you show no quarter."

"Of course not. Quarters are for Gryffindors and pie."

The woman in the portrait grinned rather viciously and nodded. "Very good. He looks sort of like Regulus, doesn't he?"

Cassiopeia nodded amusedly. "Rather like Pollux, I thought."

"Yes, yes he does. Very good indeed."

Cassiopeia then turned to a very confused Harry. "Follow me, Harry."

She led him around to the den, ignoring Walburga's sudden ranting on how brave a boy Regulus was, stopping in front of the hearth, fetching a small dagger and a book from between two candles. The dagger was clearly an old, ceremonial dagger, and the book had the crest of the House of Black on it. Cassiopeia then set the book she had been carrying since Borgin and Burkes, _Funerary Rites of the Ancients,_ down on the table, turning to Harry.

"I do not have much longer to live, Harry, only a few months, at most. I…I need someone to come take care of poor Walburga's portrait when I'm gone – she gets so lonely, it will drive her mad, eventually – after all she suffered during her last few years, I'd hate to see the only memory of her fall into ruin. I would like to include you in the blood wards around the house, so that you can enter whenever you like. If you could come…just sit with her every so often…" She grimly opened the book in her hand, revealing pages and pages of bloody fingerprints, and held out the dagger to Harry.

Harry took the dagger without hesitation, cutting his finger, and pressing it into the book. "Is that alright?" he asked, as the wound immediately healed.

Cassiopeia nodded. "Unfortunately, I do not doubt that someone from the Ministry has wards up wherever your current residence is – they would notice were you to leave permanently. But consider this place yours; I am the last living Black – all the others are dead, married off, or disowned – and so though I do not have the authority to make you the Black heir, I am leaving all this to you…only you, currently, can gain access to this house."

Harry gasped, but then nodded solemnly.

"Kreacher!" Cassiopeia called suddenly, causing an old, decrepit house elf to appear beside her. "Kreacher, this is your new master – you will listen to his orders, and wherever he calls you, you will go to him, and apparate him here if he asks. Is that clear?"

Kreacher bowed deeply. "Yes, Mistress." He turned to Harry, and bowed also to him.

"Hello Kreacher," Harry said softly, "I'm Harry."

Kreacher eyes widened, and he bowed even deeper.

"Do you need him to take you home?" Cassiopeia asked.

Harry shook his head. "I've got a portkey. I am curious, though, Miss Black – why me? I mean, surely you could have chosen several other relations to bequeath this house to…"

"Please, call me Aunt Cassie," she said, before a fond, amused look came over her face, "A few years ago, I met a Seer, a very talented one, by reputation, who conducted a reading for me – he said that I would meet the one who would revive the House of Black to greatness on June twenty-fifth of the year nineteen ninety-two. I wasn't inclined to put much confidence in the statement – but when I saw you…I could not help but recall it..."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "The Seer...was he a blonde American, by any chance?"

"Yes, he was," she replied, eyebrow raised. "Jean Alliette was famous, or perhaps a better word would be infamous, in certain circles. A pity he died so young."

Harry eyes widened curiously. "Huh…well, it was an honour meeting you…Aunt Cassie."

"And you as well, Harry."

Harry nodded, but glanced over at the book Cassiopeia set down earlier. "Was that the book you were taking to Borgin and Burke's? It looks very fascinating."

Cassiopeia blinked, but then picked up the book and handed it to him. "If that is so, then you may keep it – I have no use for it."

Harry smiled gratefully. "Thanks Aunt Cassie, for everything."

She smiled softly back – a countenance that seemed out of place on her sharp features – as Harry tapped the pendant on his wrist. "Othila."

A moment later, he found himself in Jean's Hollow, alone.

"Well, that was bizarre."

* * *

And in case anyone's interested the conjuration basically invokes the spirit using the power of God's creating word (Greek NT: logos) and unspeakable name, also appealing to the purity of the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ, and the fierceness of the archangel Michael to bind the spirit. The spirit is requested not to fear the caster, but rather to faithfully answer any given question without fraud or pretence. The idea here (in my AU), is that the conjurer pleads, drawing on another transcendent being's power to intercede with the spirit (the communication with Death would occur purely by the Will put toward the spell).

*sigh* I really should stop with this whole ranting thing...meh. Anyway, you know how I feel about reviews *tired smile*


	18. Of House Elves and History Professors

**Disclaimer:** Just pretend it's here.

**AN**: Thanks, everybody, for reviewing (you know who you are)! Now, I'd like to apologize in advance - I can't help the feeling that I missed something in this chapter, but I'm not doing too much editing on it...I just sat through two hours of higher order mixed partial derivatives of functions of five variables...if that sounds confusing, multiply it by ten, add a headache, and that's how I feel right now :P

* * *

**Chapter 18: Of House Elves and History Professors**

The next month passed rather quickly, Harry's days filled to the brim with various preoccupations – his job at Borgin and Burke's, making plans with Hermione, and trying to find a way to locate Peter Pettigrew foremost among them. His part time employment proved, in the end, to be a reprieve – getting paid for doing work that was most of the time mindless and idle was quite a novel experience. The shop was usually quiet, for the most part, with only a few customers showing up per day; but most of them were very fascinating, Harry found – witches and wizards with obscure tastes and knowledge, many of them more than happy to satiate his curiosity. He had already met a few curse breakers and crafters, a collector of ancient torture devices, an man who worked as an executioner, and another who guarded Azkaban, some ex-aurors (all discharged for the usage of questionable spells), and a witch who still actively worshipped the Norse deities. Borgin was even starting to allow Harry to assisting him with appraising and pricing items, as well as organizing the inventory – all in all, Harry decided that his part-time job was a worthwhile endeavour.

His project with Hermione was coming along slowly – both were neck-deep in complex research, both wishing that they knew more about the subjects they were studying. They had met a few times over the summer, once more at Hermione's house, another few times at a park. She had even taken to helping him with locating a locator spell – although in that, he seemed to have hit a brick wall. By the time the end of July was nearing, he was considering asking Cassiopeia Black for advice on the matter – since their original greeting, they had met briefly at Borgin and Burkes once more, and the elderly woman had seemed pleased to see him, eager to answer some of his questions about a few cursed objects he found in the shop inventory. The woman was also curious as to how Harry was enjoying the book she had given him – raising an eyebrow when he told her that he was trying to find a way to expel a troublesome spirit. The book had proven extremely insightful on not only spirit expulsion but also cultural differences in both wizarding and muggle communities. He had recently lent the book to Hermione, who was eager to read it after he told her about it, even if the text _was _rather morbid.

Hermione, however, was the only one of his classmates that he had contact with through the summer. He hadn't received a single owl throughout the entire seven weeks – which he found quite depressing. And suspicious. He would have thought that at least Michael and Terry and Neville would have sent letters, but none arrived. On top of that, for the past two weeks, the disconcerting sensation of being watched had been itching in the back of his mind. He had a sneaking suspicion that his summer would be getting even stranger than it already was.

* * *

Early in the afternoon of July 31st, Harry left the Dursley household, being begged to stay away until late at night – seeing as it was his birthday, and he was in a decent mood, he complied amiably. Nevertheless, Vernon saw fit to threaten him, shoving him into the wall; but upon noticing the fierce, green-eyed glare fixed his way, the man was cowed, and Harry left the house without another word. Vernon, for some reason, couldn't quite seem to register that Harry wasn't scared of him - even after Harry had lit is coat on fire a week prior, he had gone back to being a fat, pompous moron the next day. In the end, Harry could only shake his head. Some people just never learn.

Borgin, for some reason, had given him the day off; Harry hardly believed that it was a present from the ill-mannered shopkeeper…perhaps he thought that Harry would be distracted that day, and therefore useless. Not that Harry was ever, really, useless – honestly, he had no idea how the disorganized old man had ever managed the shop without him. Sighing as he walked down the quiet, smouldering hot street, toward Jean's Hollow, Harry could not help but grin – even though he hadn't gotten any mail all summer, he expected a package that day…only a day ago he had sent Neville a package and letter from Diagon Alley; a copy of Sun Tzu's _The Art of War _and a birthday note. Neville wouldn't forget to send him a present back.

Slipping through the broken window leading into the hollow, Harry nearly fell over when he found it already occupied – by a house elf, of all things, staring at him intently with wide, practically bulging green eyes. Harry thought that if they widened any more, the eyeballs might fall out - which would be sort of funny, but quite awful for the poor, bedraggled elf.

Harry took a deep breath. "Who the hell're you?"

"Harry Potter!" the small creature shrieked, tears of joy gathering in his eyes. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir…such an honour it is…to meet the great wizard, Harry Potter! Dobby is so honoured! So, so honoured!"

Harry gaped at the tiny, expressive elf, as it looked up at him with pure adulation in his eyes. Suddenly, he felt very awkward. "So…your name is Dobby? Nice to meet you, I guess…"

Tears welled up in the elf's eyes again, as he began to hyperventilate. "My name, my name! The great Harry Potter says Dobby's name! And he's happy to meet Dobby! Oh…oh, what an honour!"

Harry backed away slowly. "Dobby…Dobby. You _really _need to calm down. If you hyperventilate, your body will start to be affected by oxygen deprivation, and you may even suffer from cardiac arrest – that means you'd die. And then I'd have to find your owners and explain why your heart stopped…and then they'd be pissed at me…"

Dobby froze. "Oh no...Dobby's causing trouble for great, wonderful, caring Harry Potter sir…Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" The poor deranged elf began to smack its head against the wall, causing Harry to cringe, alarmed – he wanted to be amused, he really did, but for some reason, he couldn't quite bring himself to laugh at the poor thing.

"Wait, Dobby, stop! It's alright. I mean, it isn't – I don't want you to die, but it's not really my problem. It's not like I'd be _that _troubled if your heart gave out - it would just be better for both of us if it didn't. So…so just calm down, and let's talk about this."

The elf paused, slowly looking over to Harry with teary green eyes.

"Alright, good. So first, dry off your eyes. Yeah, that's right, now take deep breaths…calm ones – and if possible, empty your mind. Completely."

Dobby looked at him confusedly at that, but then his expression turned into one of awe and reverence. "Harry Potter is so great, so magnificent, that Dobby cannot even understand his great words!"

Harry sighed. At least the elf was calming down…sort of. "I don't know who you've been speaking to, Dobby, but I'm really not _that _great – I mean, I'm not a god or anything – though that would be cool, and I'd be really kick-ass god…but the fact is, I'm not."

"Harry Potter is so humble and modest," Dobby gasped, wide green eyes twinkling – reminding Harry of Dumbledore, for some reason.

"Er…most people would disagree…but anyway, we should talk – why're you here? Did your master send you?"

Dobby shuddered. "Oh, no, sir, no…Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir –"

"In the oven door? Is the oven hot when you do it? That would hurt...a lot." He shook his head. "But, anyway, won't shutting your ears in the oven door, I don't know, let them know you did something wrong?" Harry asked carefully.

"Dobby truly doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments…"

Harry blinked. _Must be a really defective house elf…or some bat-shit crazy owners…or both… _"Right…so you're here of your own volition?" Harry asked confusedly – house elves almost never did things that went against their master's wishes.

"Indeed, Harry Potter sir – Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later…_Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts."_

"What?" Harry exclaimed, finding the prospect quite horrifying, "No! I have to!"

"No, no, no," Dobby squeaked fearfully, tossing his head about rapidly. "Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he is in mortal danger!"

Harry sighed patiently. "And why is that, Dobby?"

"There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year," Dobby whimpered, trembling. "Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!"

"Ok then…who's plotting, and what are they plotting? I'd really like to get in on it, like seriously…"

Dobby made a strangled choking noise, and began to violently bang his head against the wall once again.

Harry's arm darted out and seized the elf, pulling him away from the wall. "It's alright…I get it, you're not allowed to tell me – just say so next time."

Dobby nodded miserably, before his eyes lit up. "Harry Potter touched me…"

"Don't…don't start on that…just…give me a good reason why I shouldn't go, and I'll consider it."

"Harry Potter is in _danger_, sir…"

"Yes, I was in danger last year, too. I mean, seriously, when Voldemort wasn't shooting curses at me and hellhounds weren't trying to eat me, teachers were trying to kill me with detentions and point deductions and those disapproving stares they fix you with when you're honest with them. But I've got professors to talk to, books to read, research to do, classes to take – hell, I've even got friends to see –"

"Friends who don't even _write _to Harry Potter?" Dobby tried desperately.

"Well, that's another thing entirely – I – wait a minute," said Harry, frowning. "How do _you_ know my friends haven't been writing to me?"

Dobby shuffled his feet nervously. "Harry Potter mustn't be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best –"

Harry chuckled with enraged disbelief. "_You've been intercepting my mail_?"

"Dobby has the letters here, sir," said the elf, trembling. Stepping nimbly out of Harry's reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the filthy pillowcase he wore, and then he snapped his fingers, causing a large package to morph into existence. He turned his huge, wretchedly anxious eyes toward Harry.

The table in the corner of the hollow began to tremble, and the incessantly running record player began to skip. "Give them back, Dobby. Right now."

"Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won't go back, sir!"

Harry sighed heavily, taking every ounce of concentration he had to calm himself. "Alright, Dobby," he said quietly, "I'll give you my word. That I won't fly off to Hogwarts on September the first. I'll buy my books and do my work here."

Dobby nodded gratefully. "Thank you, thank you Harry Potter, sir! Thank you for listening to Dobby's pleas!"

Harry nodded stiffly. "Right. Okay, shouldn't you get going before your masters notice you're away?"

Dobby's eyes widened fearfully. "Oh! Oh yes! Thank you, Harry Potter, sir, thank you!" The tiny creature snapped its fingers and disappeared, leaving the package and the small pile of letters behind.

Harry sighed explosively, collapsing on the ground and pulling Jean's portrait out of his B3.

"Hey brat, what took so long?"

Harry shook his head. "Curiouser and curiouser…"

"Huh?"

"My summer, Jean – it just keeps getting stranger. You know how I haven't gotten any letters?"

Jean nodded, frowning.

"Well, it turns out some whack-job house elf with a fanboy man-crush on me has been intercepting them."

"Dude, what?"

"I'm serious!"

Jean burst out in hysteric laughter.

"It's not funny!" Harry growled. "It's bloody annoying."

Jean's rapturous laughter quieted into chuckles. "You have to admit – it's quite funny. Almost as funny as being kidnapped by Cassiopeia Black was."

Harry groaned, sitting up and picking up the pile of letters – there were three written in Terry's messy script, two in Michael's neater longhand, and three from Neville. There was also one addressed in some unfamiliar handwriting. He started reading Terry's first – most just detailing how Terry spent his summer with his parents, travelling around Europe, as well as nagging Harry about not responding. Michael's were much the same – only he, apparently had been coerced by his father into assisting with his work as a curse-breaker. Poor Neville was stuck in Longbottom Manor with his crazy relations, spending most of his time in his greenhouse. He seemed quite thankful, though confused, for Harry's gift. Apparently, he didn't quite understand the historical context of Sun Tzu's work. Neville's last letter was a birthday note, drawing Harry's attention to the package in the corner. Ripping it open, he was thrilled to find a package of one hundred chocolate frogs.

"Wha'dya get?" Jean exclaimed, trying to peer over Harry's shoulder.

"Chocolate frogs," Harry said, his voice shivering with ecstasy, "Lots of 'em."

Jean sighed melodramatically. "These are the times I wish I was still alive."

"Yeah - Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha - they're all mine!"

"All ye chocolate frogs, kneel before the great Harry Potter!"

Harry chuckled. "I suppose I should write replies…explain to them that I haven't been avoiding them and a nutty house elf has been stealing my mail."

"Yeah, that'll give 'em a good laugh."

Harry glared at him.

"But what about that last letter?"

Harry blinked, staring at the last, unfamiliar letter in the pile. He frowned. "It's from Saint Mungo's."

Jean raised an eyebrow as Harry tore the envelope open, paling as he read. "What is it?"

Harry let out a shaky breath. "Cassiopeia Black is dead…she was admitted to the emergency care unit several days ago after collapsing at the Ministry. She didn't even make it through the night."

Jean sighed, shaking his head sadly. "Sorry, kid."

"It...it's not like I even knew her well..."

"But you liked her a lot - that much was obvious."

Harry nodded slowly. "I should go visit Lady Black and Kreacher."

"I'm sure Cassiopeia would appreciate that."

Harry bit his lip, pulling out a quill and some parchment from his B3. He first penned a note to Neville, thanking for his gift, and then he wrote letters to Terry and Michael, accompanied by a notification for the commencement of 'Brotherhood of Binns Exorcists Operation 2' at twenty-hundred hours that evening.

Finishing, he rose from where he sat, glancing at Jean. "Are you going to be alright here? I might not be back until morning."

Jean blinked. "What are you planning?"

"Well, first I'm gonna mail these letters, and then wait around Diagon Alley for Terry and Michael – I'm hoping that they'll show up at the meeting place, so we can start the operation –"

Jean smirked.

"- After we're done, I'll drop in at Number 12 Grimmauld Place."

Jean nodded. "Be careful, and don't get into too much trouble. Like…don't get arrested, or anything."

"I won't." He stuffed the letters in his B3. "See you. Raido."

* * *

After mailing his letters, Harry wandered around Diagon Alley aimlessly for some time, idly looking in shop windows and glancing over books, buying himself an ice cream cone every hour – it _was _his birthday, after all. By the time evening was encroaching, Harry had traversed the alley at least a few times, and resolved it was time to make his way to the assigned meeting spot, and wait there for his two accomplices.

Now, Harry had never actually used the floo network before – but he had read about it plenty, and was quite clear on how it was to be done. He wasn't worried. He used the floo in the Leaky Cauldron – the small pub was bursting with the evening crowd, and so he slipped through unnoticed, and called out "Eaton Cemetery" unheard, disappearing into a torrent of green flames.

The floo opened up to a round stone storeroom, dusty and cobwebbed, a stairwell opening up on the other side. A number of rolled up tapestries, Eucharist objects, candlesticks, brooms, and various altar paraphernalia lay idly in the corner – Harry took a few of the rolled up tapestries and cloths, piling them into a pleasant little nest for him to rest on until Terry and Michael showed up…if they, in fact, did.

But sure enough, an hour later, the dusty floo flared to life, a disgruntled-looking Michael, dressed in work clothes and dragon hide boots stepping through, casting his eyes about the room, coming to rest on Harry. "Harry!" he snapped irritably, "This had better be important – it was the only part of your letter I could really understand…the rest was just incoherent rambling about maniacal house elves…."

Harry rose from his makeshift sofa, smiling sheepishly. "Well, you see, about that…"

Just then, a green fire flared up again, and Terry shot through, immediately pinning Harry with an embrace. "Oh Harry! I thought you were dead! That your evil muggle relatives had murdered you or something!" he sobbed.

Harry smirked, ignoring the other boy's iron grip on him. "Nah, I'd murder them first."

Terry drew away, grimacing. "Yeah, you probably would."

Michael cleared his throat, drawing the attentions of the other two. "Are you going to explain what's going on? And what the whole house elf thing was about?"

"Well that's obvious," Terry said, "A renegade house elf fan of his was stealing all the post he received…or, er, failed to receive."

Michael gaped at him. "You actually believed that?"

"It's true," Harry interjected, "I wasn't kidding. I went to my…room this morning, and found this house elf staring at me – it started bawling about how it was so honoured to meet me – and then it made me promise not to go back to Hogwarts, or else it wouldn't give me my letters back."

The two boys' jaws went slack.

"You're not going to Hogwarts?" Terry cried.

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "I lied. Of course I'm going to Hogwarts."

"But why wouldn't it want you to go to Hogwarts?" Michael asked, puzzled.

Harry shrugged. "It said something about a plot to make terrible things happen at school, and that I was in danger…"

Michael quirked an eyebrow. "Do you believe it?"

"I dunno – it wouldn't be a surprise after last year."

Terry cringed.

"But that doesn't explain why we're here now," Michael said pointedly.

"Ah, yes," Harry began, smirking rather pompously, "Well it so happens, that amidst the unproductive productivity of my very busy summer, I have found a foolproof way to get rid of our most hated history professor, Cuthbert Binns."

Both boys eyes widened, before Terry cheered triumphantly and Michael glared at him.

"You're sure it will work? You said yourself, that the Hogwarts wards have an unpredictable effect on exorcisms –"

"Ah-ha!" Harry exclaimed, "But I never said it was an exorcism."

Terry frowned, puzzled. "But how else do you get rid of a vengeful spirit?"

"He isn't vengeful, you idiot!" Michael snapped.

"Oh yes he is!" Terry said, "Wreaking vengeance on all us poor helpless students with his boring lectures…"

"Anyway," Harry interrupted, "There is one sure way to send a spirit off and make sure it stays away – a proper burial."

"I'm pretty sure Binns is already buried, Harry," Michael drawled.

"But not _properly_. You see, there are several different traditions around the world that muggles and wizards use to assure that spirits depart and stay departed. Most of these traditions, however, are now obsolete. For muggles, they fell out of practice in Europe when Christianity spread during the Middle Ages, and pagan traditions died out. Except Christmas and Halloween, that is, though they've been renamed. For European wizards, it happened around the same time – when blood magic and ritual sacrifice was outlawed for being 'dark,' most traditional practices tied with them died out as well. Some places in Asia, Africa, and South America, however, have stuck with their traditions."

"So wait…" Terry said slowly, "You want us to use an _illegal _ritual?"

Harry scowled, crossing his arms. "The funerary rituals were never actually made illegal – just the practices and beliefs they came from."

Michael nodded slowly. "Alright…so what would this entail?"

"To ensure the eternal rest of a spirit, the Norse and the Angles often cremated a body and buried the ashes in special burial urns engraved with runes designed to ward the spirit away from the earth," he leaned over, reaching into his B3 and produced a small lidded pot, paint worn and engravings faint, yet still readily depicting strings of runes winding about the aged pottery, "Like this one."

Michael gaped at it, stepping forward to steal a closer look. "Where did you get that? They're extremely rare! And they're all supposed to be confiscated by the Ministry…"

Harry smirked. "I know a guy…" Well, he worked for a guy, anyway.

"But I don't understand…wouldn't Binns have to be cremated?" Terry asked.

Harry's smirk grew even wider. "Of course – but he wasn't. He was buried. In the cemetery beside this church, in fact."

Both boys gaped at him.

"But Harry!" Terry cried. "You want us to exhume and cremate him? That's illegal! Like, really illegal! And creepy too. We could be arrested for that!"

Harry nodded. "I know, but that's a risk we'll have to take. The church is old – the cemetery hasn't been used in over seventy years – no one should be around. I've got everything in here -" he patted his B3. "So are you in, or not?"

Michael hesitated, but then nodded firmly, turning to Terry.

"Oh, come on, guys – this isn't just messing around and sneaking into the Restricted Section! This is breaking the law! Like big time!"

Michael waved him off. "Your mum's a lawyer, right? She can get us out of trouble if we get caught."

Harry nodded.

Terry sighed. "It doesn't work like that…"

"Come on, Terry, we've come too far to just give up!" Harry exclaimed excitedly. "Besides, I've always wanted to light someone on fire! Well, someone besides my uncle. Even if they're already dead…"

The other two grimaced at that.

"Fine, fine," Terry said in a defeated tone. "Let's just…get this over with, so I can get home before my parents get suspicious."

Harry grinned and nodded, leading them up the stone stairwell. "I scoped out the place last week." He tugged open a side door in a little alcove, leading outside. "Binns's grave is right over there."

The three of them trekked through the lines of monotonously carved grave markers, soon stopping in front of on that read:

_Cuthbert Binns  
1672 – 1813  
May He Rest In Peace_

Harry snorted. "That sure didn't happen." Reaching into his B3, he pulled out three shovels almost as tall as him, handing one to each of his companions. "Now be careful," he said, "Stay quiet, and work quickly."

The two boys nodded, and followed his lead, digging their shovels into the dry ground, still warm from the heat of the day.

"I wonder what my parents would say if they knew I was digging up my professor's grave," Terry moaned.

"My mum would probably arrest me herself," Michael groused. "My dad would be more interested in the burial urn."

"My parents probably don't care," Harry piped up, "So long as it's not their graves."

Terry and Michael cast him looks bordering between incredulity and sympathy.

"What, it's true!"

Michael shook his head. "Just…never mind…"

As the hole became deeper, Harry leapt in, the other two reluctantly followed, continuing to dig, labouring to keep the dirt from falling back into the hole, onto their heads. Forty-five minutes passed, and the sheen of sweat was dripping from their brows, their clothes wet with perspiration as they finally hit something hard. Setting the shovels aside, they eased the coffin lid open, finding a frail skeleton lying inside.

Harry smirked. "Hullo, Professor Binns."

"I'm so glad he's been dead a hundred and eighty years," Terry breathed.

Michael grimaced. "Indeed. Now, how are we going to burn him?"

Harry held up a finger and reached into his B3, pulling out a large plastic jug with a flourish.

"What's that?"

"Petrol," Harry answered, opening the bottle and pouring the strongly scented liquid on Binns's bones. "Muggles use it to run their automobiles – it's easy to find and an excellent accelerant. Come on, we don't want to be this close when we light the fire."

The three boys clambered out of the grave, Terry and Michael looking at Harry expectantly.

"You gonna light it, mate?" Terry asked.

Harry nodded, crouching down and knitting his brows stiffly.

"_What _are you doing?" Michael drawled.

"I've been working on this for a while," he grunted. A few moments later, the bones in the coffin burst into flames.

"Blimey!" Terry exclaimed. "Wandless magic, Harry? That's amazing!"

Michael was just staring, wide eyed.

Harry shrugged, straightening himself. "I didn't have to make the spark that big, because of the petrol…"

"But still, mate! That's wicked!"

"You _will _be teaching us that, eventually," Michael said suddenly.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Sure."

Below them, as the minutes ticked away, the fire was blazing furiously, the frail bones within starting to break down, collapsing into the coffin.

"So what now?" Terry asked.

Harry bit his lip, willing the magically-enforced coffin lid to swing shut, smothering the fire. "We wait a few moments, for it to cool, then we open the lid carefully, put the ashes in the urn, and rebury the whole thing – then we're done."

Terry nodded. "Well, that was easy enough – except for the digging…that was awful."

Harry smirked. "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

Michael snorted. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Harry shrugged. "What makes you weak in one way will make you strong in another."

Michael and Terry looked at him oddly.

"What? Just thinking out loud…"

"You have weird thoughts," Terry stated.

Harry sighed. "Whatever." He waved his hand, causing the coffin lid to swing in, climbing carefully back into the grave. "Hand me the urn, will you?"

Michael nodded and carefully picked up the antique piece of pottery and handed it to Harry, who removed his shoe and used it to shovel the hot ashes into the urn. He placed the lid on the jar carefully, closing the lid of the coffin over it and climbing out of the grave.

"Alright, let's bury it and get out of here."

It took much less time to put the dirt back on the grave than it did to take them off, and in no time at all, the three Ravenclaws were creeping back to the door in the side of the church, and then down the stairs to the storage room in the basement where the floo was.

"Don't forget to write," Michael said as he grabbed some floo powder from atop the hearth.

"As long as a crazy house elf doesn't steal the letters, they should reach you," Harry muttered.

Terry patted him on the arm. "See you in a month, then?"

"And you'll owe us," Michael added, "For dragging us out here on a whim like this."

Harry shook his head. "Let's say it's my birthday present and call it even."

Terry gaped at him. "It's your birthday!"

"Yup."

"I didn't get you anything!"

Michael rolled his eyes. "He just said this is good enough. I'm inclined to agree." He nodded to Harry. "See you, and happy birthday." He stepped into the floo, tossing the powder and disappearing into a torrent of green flame.

Terry smiled at him. "Now, don't get any other mad ideas, but that was kind of fun."

Harry smirked at him. "Right, no more mad ideas…for now."

Terry shook his head. "Happy birthday, mate. I'll get you something really great next year."

"As great as an illegal cremation? I'd like to see you try."

Terry laughed. "Sure. See you."

After Terry had disappeared, Harry glanced around the room, and then dusted his soiled clothes off as best as he could before calling, "Kreacher!"

A moment later, the old, thin, decrepit house elf popped into existence before him, bowing deeply. "Master Harry called?"

"Yes, thanks, Kreacher, for coming so promptly."

The small creature looked up at him, wide eyed. Harry didn't know what it was that he liked so much about the shriveled old elf, which always seemed to be disgruntled and distressed and not that far from being malevolent - it was just so...cute.

"I was wondering if you could take me to visit your mistress?"

Kreacher nodded slowly. "Yes, Master." He grabbed onto Harry's outstretched hand, snapping his fingers, instantly popping them into the entrance hall of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Thanks Kreacher."

The house elf nodded, its gaze lingering on Harry curiously for a moment, and then it disappeared.

"Who's there!" called out a frantic, shrieking voice, suddenly.

"It's Harry, Harry Potter, Lady Black," Harry replied, turning the corner and finding himself in front of the life-sized portrait.

"Oh! It's you!" She bit her lip and began wringing her hands. "I thought you might be Aunt Cassie."

Harry cringed, hesitating a moment, before deciding it was probably best to be blunt. "I'm afraid, Lady Black, that she passed away a few days ago. I'm terribly sorry."

The old woman's eyes went wide, as she gasped hoarsely. "D-dead? Cassie? Oh…oh dear. C-Cassie? She...she's gone...?"

Harry could do nothing but resist a nervous grimace as the pitiful woman's lower lip began to tremble.

"She…was she in pain?"

Harry shook his head, relieved by the question. "My understanding is that it happened quickly."

Walburga's portrait took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Good…good…Aunt Cassie didn't deserve to be in pain. She was a good, strong woman, you know – cursed anyone who crossed her. Had a glare that struck fear into the hearts of men!"

Harry grinned. "Is that why she never married? Because they were all too scared of her?"

Walburga cackled weakly. "Oh, oh no. No man was ever good enough for her – I remember, Octavian Mulciber once tried to court her – ended up with three missing fingers, he did! Presumptuous fool he was."

Harry chuckled. "You didn't like him?"

"Of course not," the old woman sniffed, "He was a snivelling fool with no pride – could never be good enough for a lady of the House of Black!"

Harry nodded musingly. "The Blacks were a proud family, weren't they?"

Walburga sobered slightly, her eyes tearing up. "But pride is a fickle thing, boy, you'd do best to remember that. Pride's no good to you dead – and life's no good to you when you've got no pride."

"That's very true, Lady Black."

The woman scowled harshly. "Call me Aunt Walburga!" she snapped loudly.

Harry blinked. "Er…alright, Aunt Walburga."

"Very good." Walburga sniffed and nodded, glancing over him, and then shrieking. "And your clothes!" she suddenly exclaimed, horrified, "They're filthy!"

"Er...yeah, sorry about that. I was digging up a grave before I came, you see."

Walburga blinked. "Whose grave?"

"Uh...Professor Binns's, actually - some friends and I thought it was time he retired, so we helped him on, a bit."

"Oh, that's alright then." She scowled. "Pitiful, mudblood loving bastard, he was."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"So...when did you find out?"

"What? Oh, about...Aunt Cassie... just this morning."

"And what day is it today?"

"July the thirty-first."

Walburga's portrait clapped her hands suddenly. "Oh! It's your birthday, isn't it!"

Harry smiled slightly and nodded.

"Twelve? It is twelve, right? Kreacher!" she shrieked, causing the elf to pop between Harry and her. "It's Harry's twelfth birthday! Get him a present!"

The elf's eyes widened, and he disappeared, appearing again a moment later with a an old, thick book with black binding in his hands, bowing deeply as he presented it to Harry; though no small amount of anticipation and pride was evident on the weary elf's face.

Harry took it, opening it, eyes lighting up when they saw the title page. "_Magick Moste Evile?_" He wasn't sure what sort of woman would give a child a dark magic book for its twelfth birthday - not that he minded, in the end.

"I gave it to Sirius, on his twelfth birthday – he threw it out, he did! Selfish, ungrateful, self-righteous brat!" She glared at him piercingly. "_You'll _read it, won't you?"

Harry grinned nervously under the portrait's scrutiny. "Better than that, I'll memorize it."

The woman cackled gleefully. "Splendid! Splendid! Now Kreacher, go make him a birthday cake, and quick! Before his birthday's over!"

Harry stared at her, gaping slightly as Kreacher bowed and popped away.

"Shut your mouth, boy, it's undignified!" she snarled.

Harry's mouth snapped shut. "Sorry, Aunt Walburga…it's just, I've never had a birthday cake before."

The woman's eyes flashed. "Why not?" she snapped.

Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to lie to the woman. "Well, my relatives sort of hate me...they're muggles, you see, awful ones, and they hate magic," Harry said sombrely, suddenly feeling the brief but perennial I'm-lonely-on-my-birthday depression sink in.

However, it didn't last for very long at all, as the woman in the portrait shrieked in rage, so loud that Harry had to cover his ears, and the other paintings on the wall rattled. "Filthy, stupid muggles! Scum of the earth! I'd flay them alive, boil them in oil, curse them until there's nothing left! Filth! Worthless filth!"

Harry wasn't sure why, but a distinct warmth was welling up in his chest, and he smiled as the woman ranted. Though he doubted that Lily Potter would be so...psychotic...he wondered if this was something like how it felt to have a mother looking after you. "Don't worry, Aunt Walburga. It's fine. In fact, I tossed Uncle Vernon, the most awful of the muggles, into the wall just the other day, because he hit me. I lit his coat on fire, too."

"Oh! What a good boy!" Walburga crooned.

Harry smirked, jumping a few centimetres as a small table materialized between him and the portrait, a small cake with candles set on it neatly, a chair appearing behind him.

"Oh, here it is!" she said, her voice bounding with glee. "Now sit down, and do exactly as I say," she snapped. "Close your eyes, and then make a wish, while you blow out all the candles! And don't tell anyone what it is - it won't come true, then."

Harry bit his lip, leaning over carefully, glancing up at the elderly woman in the portrait before focusing on the glittering candles. But suddenly, his head snapped up, to the side, eyes darting up the stairs. The strangest sensation of a presence, not far away, singed his senses - and suddenly, he thought he saw a shadow, a figure shaped like a man flicker at the top of the stairwell, standing in one of the darkened doorways, before disappearing, as though it was never there.

"Well, get on with it!"

Harry chuckled before he closed his eyes and blew, making a wish – but somehow, even he wasn't quite sure what it was.

* * *

Okay, so anyone who liked Cassiopeia…sorry? Walburga was my main interest here, for Harry, and Cassiopeia had more use dying than living at this particular point (also, she does die in 1992, according to canon, I believe…). However, you may have noticed – I have a penchant for talking portraits. So she may make a comeback, who knows? I certainly don't.

And reviews are like the raspberry jam I put in cottage cheese – they make it all perfect!


	19. Of Books and Blubbering Idiots

**Disclaimer**: If I wanted to own Harry Potter...I wouldn't just write fan fiction. If I wanted to own anything else...I still wouldn't just write fan fiction.

**AN**: 1. Thank you, so much - in the last few days, I've gotten so many notifications of people favouriting my story and people reviewing - it makes me smile and want to write more, and more, and more, and more...  
2. This chapter is very frustrating - it had to be done, though, so please bear with me :)

* * *

**Chapter 19: Of Books and Blubbering Idiots**

"Potter!" the oily but sharp voice cut through the silence of the back room.

"What?" Harry replied distractedly, not bothering to remove his eyes from the book in his hands.

"I've got somewhere to be – watch the shop."

"Sure."

"Everything better be in perfect order when I return, boy, and if Leda Goyle comes in, tell her we haven't got any pickled monks' hearts left."

Harry frowned. "We've got three jars here in the back."

"She'll demand I lower the price, and I'll not have that – and I don't want to be on her husband's bad side."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes sir."

"That's what I like to hear." A moment later, he heard the front door slam shut.

Harry sighed, sitting back. It was nearing the end of August, and he was starting to write up the summary for that month's inventory. He quite liked working in the back of the shop – though there were plenty of fascinating items on display in the front, and the customers were all a lot of fun, the back was where the _really _good stuff was. Each object (most of them cursed) on the shelves in the back had protective wards around them, and had detailed tags on them which detailed what sort of curse or enchantment was on it and how many people it had killed. The back room was also where the records were stored – at an unexplained urging, Harry had taken to reading through the old records and inventories. Despite the sort of business it dealt in, Borgin and Burke's shop had very few thefts and objects gone missing; most likely due to the impressive wards around the place and Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke's meticulous caution when dealing with customers and merchandise. However, during the late 1940s, Harry could not help but notice that two valuable items went missing: a locket which was supposed to have once belonged to Salazar Slytherin, right from the back of the shop, and also a cup passed down through the Hufflepuff line, which an unnamed employee was supposed to procure. The item never made it to the shop, though the previous owner was found dead, eventually, with no sign of the cup in her possession. For some reason, this struck Harry as very, very significant, though he had no idea why.

Suddenly, he was startled out of his musings when he heard the shop door opened, followed by the sound of a suspiciously familiar, whining voice, soon overcome by a deeper, smoother one calling out in a measured, aristocratic tone, "Mr. Borgin?"

Harry sighed and closed the record book, shoving it back on the shelf before he proceeded to the front counter. "I'm afraid Mr. Borgin isn't in right now – " He blinked, catching sight of a familiar blonde haired cousin of his. "Oh! Draco! How's my most favourite living cousin in the whole wide world!"

The blonde haired boy gaped at him incredulously. "Potter?" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"Why, I work here, of course," Harry replied, smirking as he leaned at the side of the counter, "But you should really start calling me by my first name, you know – seeing as we're family and all."

Draco grumbled something that sounded like, "never going to let me live that down…"

Suddenly, a steady, curt, questioning voice cut through their interaction. "Draco?"

Draco started, glancing up at the tall, regal looking man beside him who bore a distinct resemblance to him. "Oh, yes – father, this is my classmate, and…" he cringed slightly, "Cousin, Harry Potter."

Mr. Malfoy raised a delicate blonde eyebrow, glancing up and down Harry's relaxed posture. "Harry Potter? I have heard much about you," he said neutrally.

Harry smiled. "I'm afraid I can't say the same of you – but then again, not all of us can be in the modern history books, can we?"

While Mr. Malfoy's expression seemed to be somewhere between cold fury and absolute incredulity, Draco openly gaped, horrified at Harry, who burst out laughing.

"Oi, Draco! You should see the look on your face – come on, even _I _wouldn't be _that _rude right upon meeting someone. Sorry about that, Mr. Malfoy – your son is simply too easy to tease. It's actually a pleasure to meet you…and contrary to what I said, I _have _heard quite a bit about you."

Mr. Malfoy's stance seemed to relax slightly, and he smirked coldly. "Indeed, Mr. Potter – I am glad to see that my son has been making company with…one of such wit. You are a Ravenclaw, correct?"

Harry nodded. "Though I'm sure some of my house mates would like to deny it. Now! I assume you're not here to chat…might I interest you in some well-preserved hearts that once belonged to German Gregorian Monks? I think I'm allowed to sell them, anyway – as long as it's not to Mrs. Goyle."

Mr. Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid not. I am here to sell, not buy."

Harry deflated slightly. "So I guess you wouldn't like an iron maiden that belonged to Emeric the Evil?"

"No."

"Right then. Well…I'm technically not allowed to buy stuff, well, most stuff, at least, but I can tell you whether or not Mr. Borgin might be interested – he should be back soon."

"And he left you in charge of the store?" Mr. Malfoy asked, with the slightest surprise tinting his voice.

"Well, yeah. I wouldn't really say that he trusts me….but the man knows better than to doubt me, I guess. Besides, most of the customers like me….well, except this one guy, who actually tried to _crucio_ me…"

"He what?" Draco exclaimed, "What did you say to him?"

"I said that his hat looked like a pregnant vulture. I thought it was a compliment – but apparently, he didn't think so."

Draco just shook his head.

Mr. Malfoy glanced between the two of them with an unreadable expression, and then retrieved a roll of parchment from his robe, unrolling it and handing it to Harry. "These are the items I was hoping to sell."

Harry looked over the list eagerly, eyes widening at a few of the items. "A veela's preserved pituitary gland, sir? Would you really want to sell something like that? It could come in handy in several rarer potions, after all…"

A sneer curled on the man's lips. "You may or may not have heard, Mr. Potter, that the Ministry is conducting more raids –"

"They come into peoples' homes, and look for objects of questionable legality," Draco interjected in explanation.

Mr. Malfoy glared at his son slightly, but continued. "I have a few – ah – items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call…"

Harry's eyes widened. "They really do that?"

Mr. Malfoy's sneer grew more malicious, but he nodded, continuing curtly, "Do you think such a policy is reasonable, Mr. Potter?"

Harry shrugged. "As long as an object doesn't leave its owner's home, then I don't think it's any of the Ministry's business."

"Indeed," the man murmured.

"Anyway, I'd imagine Mr. Borgin would at least take a look at the first few. But the last seven…definitely no. It's simply not possible at this time."

"I see," Mr. Malfoy said distastefully.

"But," Harry said suddenly, though he had no idea why he would say what he was about to say, "I might be able to help."

Mr. Malfoy turned to him sharply, a scoff making it through his thin lips. "Oh?"

Harry nodded slowly, feeling rather confused with himself, though not confused enough to simply shut up. "I know of a place you could hide them, where the Ministry would never look."

"Oh really, Mr. Potter?" Mr. Malfoy drawled condescendingly.

Swallowing his ire at the man's tone, Harry continued, plastering a knowing look on his own face. "The Ministry doesn't conduct raids on the estates of dead people, does it?"

Mr. Malfoy only frowned at that.

Harry smirked slightly, noticing Draco's suspicious leer from the side. "Say, for instance, that I was made aware of a certain relative near death – a relative denied custody of me by the Ministry way back when. Now, imagine that this relative saw fit to grant me access to his or her heavily warded estate, even introducing me to the family house elf, who may have grown particularly fond of me. Now, were all this true, it's entirely possible that I could ask said house elf to hide your artifacts in this house, surrounded by ancient wards, where the Ministry would ever think to look, because, of course, its owner is now dead. I'd imagine that this would all work out quite well."

Mr. Malfoy's face was still, though some astonishment flickered in his eyes. "That would, indeed, be…very fortunate, Mr. Potter. I would be very interested in your offer –"

"For the appropriate price, of course," Harry interjected, glancing at Draco, who looked like he very much wanted to bang his head against a hard object.

"A price?" Mr. Malfoy asked blandly.

Harry full on grinned now. "Well, yeah, sort of – more of an 'I owe you,' really." He pulled out a small piece of parchment at a distinctively gilded pen from beneath the counter, pushing it toward Mr. Malfoy.

"A blood quill, Mr. Potter?" the man said distastefully.

"For magical contracts – a handy little thing, really. Once, Mr. Burke popped in, showed me how it's used and everything….that's the only time I've met him. He's an interesting man, really, far more tolerable than Mr. Borgin..."

Mr. Malfoy ignored Harry's tangent. "What would you expect me to write?"

"Hmm…just something general, really – that you'll do one thing for me…just one thing, that's all."

Mr. Malfoy gritted his teeth. "That would be very unwise, on my part, Mr. Potter."

"You're right – sorry, I unintentionally underestimated your intelligence. I do that sometimes, I don't mean anything by it – well, either that, or I overestimate, which tends to irk people as well. Anyway, how about this – something that doesn't directly break the law, something that won't involve your family at all, won't endanger you, and won't embarrass you in any way, at least, not as much as the discovery of these artifacts would."

Mr. Malfoy hesitated. "Very well," he bit out. "That is acceptable." He snatched up the quill, quickly penning a statement down on the paper, and sliding it back to Harry, who glanced over it and signed it, stuffing it into his pocket.

"Lovely doing business with you Mr. Malfoy."

"Indeed," the man drawled.

Harry smiled brilliantly at him, before glancing at a very pale Draco. "I like your father, Draco." Now, he didn't really, like Mr. Malfoy at all – it was more of a curious fascination, like how one likes an exotic looking insect, before you pin it to a board and hang it on your wall.

Draco smiled confusedly. "…thanks."

Just then, Borgin marched into the shop, glancing between his young assistant and the two Malfoys.

"He ain't been causing trouble for you, has he Mr. Malfoy?" the oily man asked cautiously.

"Aw…Mr. Borgin, when do I ever cause trouble?"

"Too bloody much," the man pronounced distinctly, before turning expectantly to Mr. Malfoy.

"He caused no trouble, Mr. Borgin. I will be bringing in some items, tomorrow, that Mr. Potter thought you may be interested in, however."

Mr. Borgin glanced sharply at Harry, who nodded slightly at him. "Very well. I look forward to seeing them." He turned to Harry. "You'll be off, now?"

Harry nodded. "My shift ended five minutes ago – the summary's set up, and I can start cataloguing the August sales and inventory next week. It will all be done before I leave for school."

"It had better be," Borgin groused. "Now off you go!"

Harry nodded at him, turning to the Malfoys. "I'll walk you out, if there's nothing else you need."

As the three of them left the shop, strolling down the dark meandering of Knockturn Alley, Draco turned to Harry.

"Honestly! I can't imagine how you can stand working for that man! It's not as though you're short of money…"

Harry shrugged. "I'm looking for something there. And I've found it to be a fascinating pastime."

Draco frowned at him, and Harry noticed that Mr. Malfoy was discretely staring at him from the corner of his eye. "What could you possibly be looking for?" Draco asked, puzzled.

"I suppose you'd think I'm mad if I told you I'm not sure yet."

"Too late for that," Draco sneered.

"See, Draco, this is what I like about you – even though you're a Slytherin, you're so honest. With me, at least."

"Yes, you do tend to bring out the worst in people, don't you?" Draco snapped.

The two of them bantered back and forth as they made their way from Knockturn Alley into Diagon Alley, and Harry could have sworn he saw Mr. Malfoy's lip twitch on a few occasions as he pretended not to listen in. Eventually, weaving through the bustling afternoon crowd of shoppers, they stopped in front of Flourish and Blotts.

"Have you bought your books yet, Harry?" Draco asked as they approached the bookstore.

Harry shook his head, before crying out, alarming both of the Malfoys.

"What is it?" Draco asked urgently.

Harry pointed dramatically at a sign in the window, which read:

_GILDEROY LOCKHART  
will be signing copies of his autobiography  
MAGICAL ME  
today 12:30-4:30 P.M._

"It's that name again!" Harry cried frantically. "It's everywhere! It was all over my booklist too! It's giving me bad vibes…"

Draco sneered and smacked him over the head, rolling his eyes.

Harry was muttering something like, "what the hell is a gilderoy anyway?" as Draco grabbed his arm and dragged him into the bustling shop, Mr. Malfoy pointedly looking away from them as he went off into a different section of the store. The two boys tried very hard to remain outside the crowd that was flocked about a table in the middle of the store, at which a barely visible blonde man was sitting, grinning blindingly and signing books. Harry tried very hard to ignore the man, which was giving him the creeps, and the crowd surrounding him, which were far too loud and excited for his liking - but for the most part, he was unsuccessful.

As he and Draco, however, weaved through the shelves retrieving their school books (a disturbing amount of which had that strange name on their covers), they ran into someone – the short, antsy man who had been flitting about snapping pictures of the blonde, badly dressed smile-machine in the middle of the room.

"Out of the way, there," snarled the man, shoving Draco out of the way. "This is for the _Daily Prophet_ –"

Draco glared furiously at the man. "You think I care? When my father hears about this, the least of your troubles will be your job at the _Prophet_!"

Harry rolled his eyes at Draco's loud, angry tone, but froze when he saw the blonde thing – a Gilderoy Lockhart, he reminded himself – staring straight at them, all of a sudden leaping to his feet and exclaiming loudly, "It _can't _be, Harry Potter?"

"Oh god," Harry moaned, "It spotted us."

Draco grimaced as the crowd before them parted, whispering among themselves animatedly as though something magnificent or startling had just happened. Suddenly, Lockhart dived through the parted crowd, though, seizing Harry's arm.

He tried to pull Harry forward, but the small boy's footing was sure, and he was able to rip his arm away from the blonde-haired, fake-smiling, garishly-clothed nightmare, before glaring up at him, hissing maliciously, "Touch me again and I'll forego having you arrested for sexual harassment and just curse you myself!"

The Lockhart-thing didn't seem to register the meaning of that particular statement, however, and just continued to smile, diving forward at Harry again – but Harry was prepared this time, and stepped forward and to the side, maneuvering his legs against Lockhart's so as to trip him, causing him to go hurtling forward into one of the bookshelves, whilst Harry slunk off, unnoticed amidst all the chaos.

Somehow, through the bustle of the store, intensified by his actions, Harry managed to make it to the counter to pay, discretely making his way back to the store entrance. He would have made a clean getaway, were it not for,

"Harry! I saw what you did!"

Harry spun around, cringing when he saw a furious-looking Hermione approaching. "Hermione. How are you this fine –"

"How could you be so awful? Attacking the poor man like that!"

"The poor man?" Harry echoed incredulously, "It attacked me!"

Before Hermione could retort, however, Harry's attention was drawn to four read-headed figures approaching behind her. "Why, hello – Weasley, Weasley, Weasley, and Weasley." His gaze drifted from Fred and George to Ron, but then remained fixed on the single girl among them. "Well, I'm assuming you're a Weasley, anyway – you sort of fit the profile."

The girl blushed a crimson as bright as her hair.

"Yes," George piped up.

"She's our sister Ginny," said Fred.

"And she's madly in love with you," they finished together, ignoring the poor girl's vicious glare.

Harry blinked. "Oh."

"Well if it isn't the Weasel Family," a sneering voice said from behind.

Harry sighed, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder. "Draco, can't you just –"

"Oh, it's you," Ron interrupted with disgust, glaring at Draco, "I'm surprised to see you here – would have thought you'd be doing your shopping in some filthy hole down in Knockturn Alley."

"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," Draco retorted haughtily, "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those." He glanced at the brand-new Lockhart books in the Weasley children's cauldrons.

Harry stepped nimbly out of the way as Ron dropped his books and lunged at Draco, watching with amusement as both boys tumbled to the ground. Ron got a few clean shots at the shell-shocked blonde boy, before he started to fight back as well. To his disappointment, however, Ron was promptly pulled away by a taller, older, but equally red-haired man. Fred and George looked rather disappointed too.

"Ron!" scolded the man who Harry assumed was Mr. Weasley, as Draco scrambled to his feet, attempting to brush himself off in a dignified manner. "What on earth? What are you doing –"

"Well, well, well – Arthur Weasley," Lucius Malfoy's icy voice suddenly drifted over them all like a dousing of cold water.

"Lucius," Mr. Weasley greeted coldly.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," said Mr. Malfoy musingly. "All those raids…I hope they're paying you overtime?" He reached into the female Weasley's cauldron and picked out a battered hand-me-down copy of the first year transfiguration text. "Obviously not. Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Harry watched with grim interest as Mr. Weasley's face rapidly turned an angry shade of red. "We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy."

"Clearly," Mr. Malfoy replied, as his grey eyes pointedly fixed themselves upon Mr. and Mrs. Granger (who seemed to be accompanying the Weasleys for some reason or another), causing Harry to narrow his eyes at him, "The company you keep, Weasley…and I thought your family could sink no lower."

Ginny Weasley's cauldron clattered to the ground as Mr. Weasley threw himself at Mr. Malfoy, both flying into a pile of books, both wrestling at each other as they hit the ground; Mr. Weasley trying to get a good shot at Mr. Malfoy's head whilst Mr. Malfoy attempted to throw the furious man off.

As a woman who seemed to be Mr. Weasley's wife, along with the shopkeeper, attempted to separate the two men, whilst Fred and George cheered their father on, Harry casually strode over to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, looking up at them and saying, "Don't take it to heart – what he said. In the wizarding world, there's a horrendously large gap between cultural and social ethics. It's mostly ignorance, pitiful really."

The Grangers blinked, surprised, but nodded anyway, seemingly understanding the gesture. They had become used to Harry's …odd way of saying things after having him over for dinner but a few times.

By then, Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Weasley had been pulled apart by Hagrid, who had just entered the store.

"Hullo, Hagrid!" Harry called, upon seeing the friendly half-giant.

"Blimey! Harry! Yer here too!"

Harry nodded. "I was just about to leave, actually, but I wanted to say – thanks again for the photo album; I look at it every night before I go to bed."

Hagrid smiled bashfully, shifting his weight. "I just, yeh know, thought it'd be nice fer yeh teh have…"

"It is." Harry turned to Mr. Malfoy, who was trying to straighten out his robes with an extremely distasteful sneer on his face. "Would you mind, Mr. Malfoy, if I picked them up now?"

The man started only slightly, glancing down at Harry. "That would be best. Come, Draco, we're leaving."

Harry, ignoring the incredulous stares from the others in the shop, followed the two Malfoys to the door, calling happily behind him, "Bye, Weasleys, Grangers, and Hagrid! Nice seeing you all!"

But as he left, he couldn't help but frown and pause at the strange observation that Ginny Weasley's cauldron now held one more book than before. Blinking and shaking his head, he slipped through the door, his mind on other things.

Once outside the shop, Mr. Malfoy instructed Draco to find his mother – Draco said a quick goodbye to Harry, and then obeyed promptly. Mr. Malfoy then took Harry's arm and apparated with him to Malfoy Manor, Harry cringing at the familiar, unpleasant sensation, struggling to remain upright when they arrived at their destination. They appeared in a vast, spacious entrance hall, made of finely crafted marble, ostentatious silk and gold tapestries hanging on the walls, bright with the light emitted by two large windows.

He looked over at Harry. "I will be back momentarily with the items."

Harry nodded, smiling slightly. "Alright – if you wouldn't mind, could you shrink them and put them in a box, or something? It would be easier to keep them contained."

The man nodded curtly, sweeping out of the room.

As he waited, Harry tapped his foot impatiently, eyes sweeping about the regal looking manor – the entrance alone was probably larger than the Dursley's house. And certainly far more interesting; though it had a similar pristine cleanliness, the manor entrance was decorated with all manners of curious object such as sculptures and various vases and figurines on pedestals. But suddenly, a small, moving figure in an adjacent room caught his eye.

"Bloody hell…"

The figure froze, glancing over at him with wide eyes. It was Dobby, the house elf. Harry felt like bashing his head into the expensive looking sculpture beside him. Dobby belonged to the _Malfoys _– that was just…_wrong_, on so many levels.

"Fancy seeing you here," Harry finally managed.

The house elf started trembling – though whether it was from fear or ecstasy, Harry couldn't tell. "Mr. H-Harry P-Potter, sir…"

At that moment, Lucius Malfoy re-entered the hall, eyes immediately snapping to where Harry's were fixed. "Dobby!" he snapped, "You know better than to bother the guests!"

Dobby whimpered fearfully, and then snapped his fingers, disappearing.

"I apologize," said Mr. Malfoy, not sounding very sorry at all, "For the elf. It is a rather troublesome one."

Harry nodded, steadying himself. _You don't say. _"Not at all." Trying very hard not to betray the turbulence washing through his chest with the thousands of possibilities that had just sprung to mind, he took the box from Mr. Malfoy. "They'll be safe until you need them next," he said shortly, "I'll see myself out."

* * *

Harry lay still on the cramped cot in his cupboard, motionless save for his fingers, which were sifting through his 78 tarot cards. Beside him the photo album from Hagrid was opened on the very last page, which featured a single picture – one of James Potter, smiling goofily between his beaming, red haired wife, and his messy haired, green-eyed son in her arms, all of them locked in an embrace. He had never seen his father's face, and his only memory of his mother's was it twisted with fear, and then cold and dead – the moving photograph was shocking for him to behold; while it filled him with some sort of inexplicable joy, knowing that his parents were such happy, hopeful people, it also made his insides churn with envy and bitterness, knowing that he would probably never see them again, and he, their son, was the only one in the photo album who never really got to share their happiness with them. But most shocking to him was his picture – giggling, carefree, a look of pure adulation and joy in his eyes as he was held tightly by his mother and father. He had _never _felt like that, as long as he could remember – and he could not help but wonder why he was allowed to remember that monster pointing his wand at his mother, and then at him, but not just one happy moment; one moment of clear, obvious love.

"You're getting good."

Harry's gaze left the photo album, and went over to Jean's portrait beside his bed. "I'd like to start putting them together, soon – both sets of cards."

Jean hummed noncommittally.

"What?"

"Well…have you noticed, as your abilities become more accurate, that you're – tired? Sort of sleepy afterward?"

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Sometimes it feels like when I was first learning how to levitate things wandlessly."

"Hmm…yeah. Well, if you mix the cards, then you'll need to do something to keep yourself from passing out afterward – since cartomancy is a very hands-on method of divination, and requires your consciousness to draw closer to the transcendent...that's why I couldn't perform a reading with both decks for the last few months of my life – but if you want to start, I'd recommend a blood sacrifice or burning incense or something…"

Harry nodded. "Huh…"

Jean frowned. "You alright? Usually you would insist on trying it for yourself first…"

"I'm fine...I'm just...thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself."

"I'd much rather hurt you at the moment."

"Hey! Dead guy, remember? At least show me a bit of respect!"

"I will when you start deserving it."

Jean snorted. "Seriously, what's on your mind?"

"Lots of things…"

"_Well_, like what?"

"Well…I was thinking about Dobby."

"The Malfoy's house elf?"

"Yeah – I'm just wondering, what could the _Malfoys _be planning that would put the students of Hogwarts in danger?"

"It's not so hard to imagine, brat – Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater."

"He said he was under the imperious curse the whole time."

Jean scoffed. "No one really believes that."

Harry nodded acquiescingly. "But still…I mean, he'd be putting his son, and his son's friends at risk. But even then, what could he be doing? I highly doubt he plans to gas us all, or set loose a bunch of dragons in the castle or something. It's a _plot_ - plots accomplish something. Most likely, me and the rest of the students are probably just potential collateral damage…but even a man like Lucius Malfoy would have _some _scruples about harming children, having a son himself – he must have a _very _good reason."

"That's fine and dandy and everything, brat, but that still gives you no clue as to what he's up to."

"I know…I'm just being paranoid, or maybe not – I know there's nothing I can do about it right now, anyway."

"So, what else?"

"What?"

"You said you've got thing_s _on your mind – that means there's more."

"You're not my bloody therapist, Jean."

"Hah! So you've finally admitted that you need psychological help!"

"I've done no such thing!"

"Well, if you're not so disturbed, prove it – tell me what else's on your mind."

Harry gritted his teeth, but then seemingly lost the energy to argue. "I…I was wondering – will I see my parents again when I die?"

Jean grimaced. "Only you could go from being necrophobic to being suicidal."

"I'm not suicidal! I just…I was thinking about why I would be afraid of death, when my parents weren't and I thought that…if I got to see them, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad – if I knew I'd meet them, then maybe I wouldn't be so afraid…"

"Okay, first thing – your parents were scared, Harry…they wouldn't have gone into hiding if they weren't. Everyone has a desire to survive. But…I – I'd love to lie to you, kid, but…I don't know what happens to you when you die."

"But you're dead!"

Jean snorted. "_I_ was painted before Jean Alliette died. I'm not really him, not completely, anyway - I didn't die."

"So all the time, when you use that 'I'm the dead guy excuse' …"

"Well, I'm a blob of paint – same difference."

"Right."

"So anyway, kiddo, it's getting late – you should probably hit the sack soon."

Harry scowled. "You're not my mother."

"Hell no. But someone has to make sure you don't shrivel up and die."

"Whatever," Harry sighed, closing the photo album and placing it beside his bed with his cards and his glasses. "Good night, Jean."

"G'night Harry. Sweet dreams."

"Yeah right."

* * *

If you don't review, I'll send Dobby after you.


	20. Of Alliances and Apples

**Disclaimer: **The same as it's been for the last 19 chapters...

**AN:** 1. Thank you, everyone who has enjoyed the story and reviewed. Reading them makes a good homework break. Anyway, here's chapter 20, a result of my boredness and daylight savings screwing with my sleep.  
2. Now that Luna Lovegood will be showing up, I thought I'd just point out; most of the creatures Luna believes in are never proven to exist in canon - it will remain like this here, for the most part, until further notice. Perhaps she will discover Snorkacks one day, crumple horned or otherwise. But one creature that most assuredly _does _exist is the Wrackspurt. I think wrackspurts are incredibly fascinating things, and some of you may have caught Jean referencing them at an earlier point - so yeah, they're real.

* * *

**Chapter 20: Of Alliances and Apples**

September the first found Harry Potter standing on platform 9 ¾ , waiting to board the Hogwarts Express. Despite his usual behavioural patterns, Harry wasn't feeling impatient at all, as one might expect him to be in such a situation – no, rather, he was in a dazed, zombie-like trance state. The last week had been a whirling mass of chaos for him; Borgin had him working overtime to finish the August inventory, Walburga wanted to spend as much time with him as she could before he left, and then there was his divination. To prepare himself for using both decks, which would require careful control and the ability to sustain the power it took, he had been obsessively performing readings on himself. At least two or three times a day, he would pull a card out of his pocket, and then close his eyes and interpret the meaning on the spot. Jean had insisted that before he performed a true tarot reading, his ability to interact with the cards would have to be second nature. So Harry had practiced. Practiced. And practiced some more. And now, on top of overtiredness work and temporary deafness from Walburga's nigh incessant shrieking, he was suffering from acute magical exhaustion.

His unfortunate condition made the chattering of the other sentient beings on the platform grate viciously on his nerves, hence the ever darkening scowl on his face and the twitching of his hands, as he listened intently for any indication of the arrival of the Hogwarts Express.

Only a few moments passed - thankfully - and the train _finally _rolled into the station. Harry immediately stepped onto the train, stowing his luggage away before he made his way down one of the cars, brow set in a thoughtful crease. On one hand, he would _really _benefit from a nap (preferably one seasoned with a dream depicting him cursing the life out of some Slytherins or particularly annoying Gryffindors...he missed school), but on the other, he knew he would hear about it if he didn't at least _try _to find Hermione, Neville, or his housemates. Whether to lock himself in his own compartment, or try to find his friends…what a quandary…

Suddenly, though, the quandary was made obsolete as he was jerkily lifted off his feet several centimetres, by two strong grips under his arms. Frantically glancing from side, he was shocked to see the two diabolically grinning Weasley twins holding him captive.

He gaped at them, outraged. "What the hell –"

"Why Harry," Fred began, followed by George's, "Fancy seeing you here."

"We've been waiting..."

"For a time to speak with you -"

"Ever since July."

Together, they began to walk in perfect synchronization, carrying him down the car.

"Put me down!" Harry snarled.

"Patience…"

"Patience…"

"It's a virtue," they concluded together, turning into one of the corner compartments and tossing Harry onto one of the seats as they slammed the door shut, locking it behind them, just as the train jolted, gradually accelerating forward.

"Alright, you've got me alone, now what do you want?" Harry snapped, mentally cursing the fact that he had not yet hit his growth spurt, and jerkily straightening out his black and green casual robes – Walburga had insisted that he take some of Regulus's old clothing with him to school, because it was not fitting for a son of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black to wear filthy muggle rags. Harry knew better than to argue.

"Now, now, Harry," George said.

"You should be a little nicer to us," said Fred.

"Especially since we know your secret."

"After all, you know ours, so it's only fair."

"What secret?" Harry gritted out.

"Well," Fred began airly, "We were quite confounded and disconcerted when you told us apart so easily."

"No one's ever done that."

"And we figured there was something to it."

"So we did some research."

"Lots of it."

"And you'd never believe what we found."

"Oh really," Harry drawled, nonchalant tone belying his nervousness.

"Yeah – turns out every witch and wizard has a unique magical core."

"In fact, it's one of the only sure-fire ways to identify someone –"

"That is, if it could be identified."

"You see, very few witches and wizards can sense another's magical core –"

"- consciously or unconsciously –"

"But either way, the only magical folk who can do this…"

"Are Seers," they finished together.

Harry sneered at them distastefully, feeling exceedingly put-off. "I'm well aware that a Seer can recognize anyone after meeting them once, even if they look differently or are disguised; it's a division of a rare form of divination known as auramancy - a few hours in the Hogwarts library would tell you that; in fact, plenty of muggle occult texts could tell you _that,_" Harry responded tonelessly, "But you forget, Misters Weasley, that I had never been introduced to you prior to Christmas day. No aura to recognize."

"Ah – " Fred began knowingly.

"We were stumped by that too…"

"But then, we remembered:"

"You watched the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin quidditch game."

"We played, and were wearing our names on our uniforms."

"So don't try to deny it!" they exclaimed.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Or, I could just be a very lucky guesser. People say I'm known for my luck." _One way or another..._

"Yeah, we thought of that too…"

"And we were prepared for being wrong,"

"Until…" Fred grinned as retrieved from his pocket and smugly displayed Harry's tarot card deck.

Lightning fast, Harry snatched it away from him, running his fingers over them to make sure it was of the same size and weight as before. He gritted his teeth and glared at the two red-haired menaces with a vicious sneer on his face. "Fine! You caught me! You going to tattle?"

Both twins gasped, horrified.

"Tattle?"

"We would never!"

"No," Fred said, regaining his composure.

"We were more thinking…"

"Of an alliance of sorts."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "An alliance?"

"Yeah, like a business arrangement –"

"For mutual profit."

"You know, you help us, we help you –"

"And we're all better off for it."

Harry blinked. "That sounds rather brilliant, actually." Relaxing his posture and crossing his legs, and then gesturing for the twins to sit down across from him, he continued, "Fine, what were you thinking?"

Both of them grinned.

"Well," George drawled.

"Divination's a pretty big business," Fred put in, nodding.

"A lot of witches and wizards will pay good money for an accurate reading."

"And our money's on the fact that you want money -"

"And practice too."

Harry smirked. "So you're proposing…that perhaps, you two make contacts and set up appointments, and I perform the readings in disguise. And we split the profits between us."

"We knew you'd understand."

"Oh yes, I do – I've been meaning to get more practice, anyway. But the whole keeping quiet about it – it's sort of an obstacle."

"Which we'll alleviate."

"We'll handle all your appointments."

"And transactions."

"And make sure everyone knows –"

"That there's a Seer roaming the halls of Hogwarts, willing to divine the future…"

"For the right price."

Harry grinned between them. "I believe this is the start of a beautiful business relationship, gentlemen."

* * *

The Great Hall was exactly as Harry had left it – enormous, colourfully bright, and the epitome of magical; the ceiling swirled like the windy sky outside, candles floating daintily above the happy, excited chatter that wafted through the warm atmosphere, all the students obviously eager for the imminent feast. However, he instantly found it ruined by one thing, one horrifying thing that nearly caused him to faint on the spot – at the staff table, there sat a tall, grinning, golden-blonde man dressed in robes even more silly and ostentatious robes than Professor Dumbledore's. Eyes morbidly fixed on the white-toothed menace, Harry followed his housemates to the table in a traumatized daze.

"Harry? Harry?" Terry was tugging on his sleeve.

He snapped to attention, before a dark look came over his face. "Sorry...I'll be right back." Purposefully, he strode right over to Slytherin table, plopping himself right beside Draco Malfoy, gaining him disbelieving looks from Parkinson, Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle, who sat nearby. "Why hello, cousin mine," he said tonelessly, stealing the blonde boy's goblet and drinking out of it.

"Harry! What are you doing here?" Draco snapped, ignoring the incredulous glances from his housemates.

Harry turned toward to him with a furious glare, causing him to wither slightly. "What am I doing here? Well, my dear cousin, please spare a glance at the staff table, and you shall know."

Draco did so, but only frowned. "What?"

Harry hissed. "It's _the thing_, the sexually-harassing, cross-dressing, fake-blonde haired thing with the permanent grin on its face that makes me want to vomit! Why's he so happy anyway? What gives him the right to be anything but as miserable as I am right now?" Granted, if the Lockhart-thing was miserable, Harry would probably be the one grinning...

Draco coughed incredulously. "Lockhart? What about him?"

"Your father is on the Hogwarts Board of Governors! You must have known he'd be here!"

"I just found out…about a week ago," Draco said slowly, still puzzled.

"A week? A whole week! And you did nothing!"

Draco sneered at him. "And what was I supposed to do?"

"Warn me - we're family! You should have owled me or _something _– I might have considered homeschooling this year, had I known that atrocious excuse for a drag queen would be here!"

Draco sniffed, "I was more interested in the other addition to the staff, to be honest."

Harry stilled, blinking. "What?"

"My mother agreed to take the position of History Professor, at least temporarily, since Binns seems to have mysteriously disappeared. "

Eyes widening and drifting over to the head table once again, Harry was shocked to find, sure enough, Narcissa Malfoy seated beside Severus Snape, in all her regal glory, nose stuck in the air as her piercing eyes swept over the chattering student body. "Huh."

Draco glanced about, noticing Professor McGonagall leaving the hall. "Look," he said quietly, rolling his eyes, "Nothing to be done about it now – get out of here, though, the Sorting's about to start!"

Harry scowled at him, but swept away from the table, calling, "You so owe me, Malfoy!"

"What was that about?" Anthony asked suspiciously as Harry sat down at the Ravenclaw Table, just before the group of first year timidly paraded into the hall.

Harry glanced at the other boy. "Nice to see you too, Anthony. Yes, my summer was fine, though filled with entirely random events of miniscule probability – how was yours?"

Anthony rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly. "Boring. We spent most of it with relatives in Germany."

Harry pointedly ignored the grating noise of the Sorting Hat's gravelly tenor. "Yes, well at least you weren't being stalked by a psychotic house elf. They're rather unstable creatures, I've come to realize."

Anthony froze a moment, but then simply shook his head, just as the song ended. "Just...quiet, the Sorting is starting."

Harry huffed, turning to Terry beside him. "Did you see the new history professor?"

Terry's lips twitched. "Sure prettier than the last one…"

Truth be told, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black was a beautiful woman – with a lighter, fairer complexion than most other Blacks, she still bore their sharp, aristocratic features. Her regal appearance was something akin to a carefully sculpted ice statue – slim, fragile, and even still, strong. Drawing his eyes away from his cousin, Harry scowled. "Watch it. She's my cousin – Draco's mum."

Terry coughed, choking on nothing, and garnering a glare from Anthony. "Y-you don't say…"

"Well, at least we know which house she'll favour," Michael drawled from across the table.

"What are you guys talking about?" Stephen whispered, leaning closer.

"The new history professor," Kevin supplied, eyes still fixed intently on the sorting.

"Oh, Mrs. Malfoy? Yeah, she actually got her Mastery in History – who would have thought?"

"It's not that hard to imagine," Michael interjected, "Malfoy always seems to know quite about wizarding history and traditions, doesn't he Harry?"

Harry shrugged, watching the sorting with a bored expression. "Hard to imagine that was us, up there, only a year ago."

Terry snorted. "Yeah, let's hope there aren't any sortings like yours was."

Harry glanced away as "Lovegood, Luna" sat down. "Why?"

"Because," Stephen said, "Yours took _forever _mate."

"You actually broke a record," Lisa said suddenly from beside Padma, a few seats down. "Mandy said she heard some of the prefects say that."

Mandy nodded distractedly beside her.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, a pleased look coming over his face. "I had no idea I was _that _awesome."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Don't lie."

Harry smirked, his gaze shifting when he heard the hat call out "RAVENCLAW!" as the blonde haired girl began to skip toward the Ravenclaw table, a hazy, dreamy look on her face. Her distant gaze immediately met Harry's, their eyes connecting with an indistinguishable familiarity as she sat herself down right beside him.

"Hello Harry Potter," she said brightly, staring straight at him.

Harry didn't know why, but he wasn't at all unnerved by the girl's intense, blue-grey stare. "Hello Luna Lovegood."

She tilted her head slightly. "The hat told me to come see you."

Harry's eyebrows rose. The girl was certainly right to the point. "Did it now?"

"Yes, it did. It said that I should tell you well done – he said that Eris would be very proud."

Harry smirked.

"He also said you'd have competition this year."

Harry blinked. "What?" He narrowed his eyes. "Is it you?"

"Oh no," Luna said honestly, wide blue eyes growing even wider, yet still distant and hazy, "I would never interfere with your reign of chaos. I will be happy to help you in utterly devastating the competition in any way I can – the wrackspurts seem to like what you've done with this place, anyway. I spoke to them earlier - they think you're very clever. But you never know with wrackspurts..."

"Huh? Wrackspurts? Oh, yeah…the little buzzing things live in the cushions in the common room." Harry nodded to himself, remembering the odd glowing shapes that he had found in the common room couches at Christmas. Jean had called them wrackspurts, saying that only Seers and magical creatures could see them, the little buggers that liked to feed off of rational thought, somehow – but that would mean…Luna…

"Oh? You have a good eye," she said admiringly.

"I'd like to point out that, in fact, I have two."

Luna squealed with delight. "Oh! So do I!"

"Yes, that I see – a very interesting blue, I might add, rather like blue bubblegum ice cream," Harry said musingly, and a little distractedly, finding himself quite giddy and hopeful at the fact that he may have found another Seer.

"But not as pretty as yours – they rather look like a snake I once met. I called him Tom."

Harry was about to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of several heads bashing on the table. "What?"

Terry looked at him wearily. "Not another one…"

Luna tilted her head curiously. "Another what?"

"Another lunatic!" Terry exclaimed.

"Well that is my name," said Luna, before frowning ever so slightly, "Oh wait, no, it's Luna."

"That's alright," said Harry, "You can have 'em both – I'll be Harry the Horrible, and you can be Luna the Lunatic!"

The other Ravenclaws looked simply horrified at the designations.

Luna clapped her hands together daintily. "Oh yes! I _do _like that! You have wonderful taste in names, Harry."

Harry grinned triumphantly, glancing about at his fellow Ravenclaws."See? _See?_ I have _wonderful _taste!" Harry turned to Luna. "They always say I'm tasteless."

"But that would make eating rather pointless, wouldn't it?"

"Exactly! If I had no taste, I'd just stop eating, and die!"

"And that would be positively dreadful," Luna concluded, though there was no dread in her voice.

Harry nodded. "After all, what's the point of living if you don't enjoy it?"

Luna sighed rather sadly, a visage of serene grief washing over her face. "That's why Crumple-Horned Snorkacks are almost extinct – they forgot the joy of living. They've retreated to their home in Sweden, to try and rediscover their happiness. No one has seen them in hundreds of years..."

Harry blinked. "I'm afraid I've never heard of Snorkacks, Crumple-Horned or otherwise."

"That's because they don't exist," Michael hissed from across the table.

Harry glanced back at Luna questioningly.

"Don't worry – they exist. He just doesn't know it yet."

"Oh, alright."

Terry suddenly burst out laughing.

Harry looked at him oddly. "What's your problem?"

"It…it's just…" Terry gasped out, "You've finally met someone as mad as you."

Harry glared at the boy intensely, grimacing when he heard several others crack up and snicker at the comment. Determined to ignore them, he huffed, turning back to Luna, who was far more fun than the rest of his housemates at the moment. "I like your earrings. Are they crab apples?"

"Why yes, they are." She pulled a string out of her robe, revealing a rather large, juicy look apple tied to the twin about her neck. "This is just a plain, normal apple. It's rather heavy, though. Would you like it?"

"I think I would," Harry said, as Luna took the apple and hung it around his neck. Looking at the bright red shape it thoughtfully, he glanced to the side, watching "Weasley, Ginevra" make her way over to the Gryffindor table, but suddenly jumping out of his skin – for he thought, for a moment, that someone had been walking behind her; a tall, shadowy shape of a man, eerily familiar to his eyes. He blinked, and it was gone.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Luna asked, not at all sounding concerned, but rather fascinated.

He shook his head. "Oh, yes. This is a very nice apple."

* * *

"Ever heard of a Lovegood?"

Jean's portrait blinked stupidly for a moment. "Wha's that? Oh, like…the family?"

Harry nodded.

"Oh, yeah, met one once – his name was Xenophilius. He was one of the few people I'd met who could actually stand my presence. But we kind of broke contact after he had his first kid – said he didn't want me corrupting his sweet, adorable daughter."

"Huh. Guess I'll have to do it for you."

Jean looked at him oddly.

"Her name is Luna, she was just sorted into Ravenclaw. And she's brilliant. Most interesting person I've ever met, I think."

"What about me!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You haven't met _her_. But listen, what I was really wondering was…"

"Whether or not the Lovegoods have Seer blood."

Harry frowned slightly, but nodded.

"They do; very unique, though – the Lovegoods are Seers, but with no talent in divination at all."

Harry blinked.

"See, they're exceptionally strong Seers, much like yourself – but the connection's a little…messy."

"Huh?"

"They've got a strong connection to the divine, in fact, they can't ever turn it right off – it's just…things get a bit garbled in between."

"I get it…it's like broken record player, or something. It's blaring loud and clear, but you can't hear the actual song."

"Exactly."

"So that's why she's so..."

"Strange? Nope, probably got nothing to do with it - it's most likely her father's doing. Xeno was the nuttiest oddball I'd ever met – awesome guy though. Totally whacked, but awesome. If his daughter's anything like him, you two will have a blast."

Harry chuckled. "This is going to be an interesting year."

"How could it not be?"

"Good point."

"Best get a good night's sleep before it starts," Jean said pointedly.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry grumbled, rolling over into his bed.

* * *

But good his sleep was not - really, he should have known better. It started fine, and everything, until he thought he'd woken up – in a dark room, if it was a room at all. Somehow, it was completely formless, utterly disorientating, a swirling, yet still, mass of chaotic nothingness. Feeling a disturbed chill creep down his spine, Harry desperately hoped that his initial guess that he was, in fact, in a dream of sorts, was accurate.

Turns out he was right. Feeling a cold, foreign breath on the back of his neck, he spun around, finding himself face to face with…himself. But oh, how he wished the serene face on the figure before him wasn't his – for the figure was covered, no drenched in blood. It was dripping down his face like sweat, dampening his hair, staining his white shirt and dyeing his tie crimson, contrasting with his pale skin and his glowing green eyes.

"Where did all that blood come from?" he whispered confusedly, enthralled by the little crimson droplets dripping from the other's glasses.

The eyes of the other him flickered downward for a moment, before a strange, knowing smirk came over his face.

"Who are you?" Harry tried again, his voice shaking.

"Why," drawled the other, sounding, in Harry's opinion, far too much like the original would on a normal day, "I thought that would be obvious."

"You're not me," Harry insisted.

"Why not?" the other asked, head tilted curiously.

"Because that blood's not mine. And I wouldn't kill someone. Not like that."

"You think?"

"I know."

"But knowledge is a funny thing, isn't it? It's strange how feeble it actually is..."

Harry bit his lip. "Who are you?"

The other sighed dramatically, feigning disappointment. "Feeling a little off are we?"

"Just answer the question."

"Fine. I'm you."

"No, you're not."

The other stared at him piercingly for a long moment, and then chuckled. "Fine, fine. Can't fool you, can I? Well, here it is – I'm _almost _you."

Harry gritted his teeth. "What's that even supposed to mean?"

"It means…you're almost me."

"You don't say," Harry bit out, belying his rising anxiety.

"Oh, I do. I do indeed. And you're almost there, just one more step over."

"Over what?"

"The line, of course," the other said.

"What line?"

Once again, the other's eyes turned downward. "That line."

Harry didn't move.

"What, are you scared?" the other mocked.

"No."

The other's eyes flashed. "Then look."

Steeling himself, Harry let his eyes fall, forcing them to remain open as the he observed the _line_ with emergent horror – as the panic, the disgust rose up in his chest like the bile in his throat, gripping him like an icy torrent of rain. It made him want to run away, far away, but yet he could not draw his eyes away, the dreadful shape at his feet like a sweet poison you couldn't help but drink up desperately. But he had to. He had to get away from the image.

Snapping out of the frozen state, his eyes snapped upward…but he was alone once again, the other nowhere in sight.

Taking a deep breath, Harry convinced himself that the dream was over, that there was nothing more to be seen, attempting to will himself into a state of empty, dreamless rest – trying desperately to forget the question gnawing viciously at the back of his mind: who was that dead, bloodied girl that had lain at his feet?

* * *

Now, I know some of you may be thinking - wtf! Harry's spilling his secret to everyone! I'd like to point out that it is not so - the actual core of Harry's secret is that he is a _true _seer - his connection to the gods is completely fluid, and when it comes to divination, his skills are limitless (no, that doesn't mean he's all-powerful, it means his potential abilities encompass a certain field entirely. big difference), with only his lack of knowledge and expertise holding him back. Fred, George, and Hermione don't know this; they don't know about the Pythia, the gods, or the Fates. There are lots of seers out there - but Harry's the only one of his kind. It's one thing to admit to someone that you play an instrument, it's completely different to reveal your world-famous virtuosity. Same idea here.

Another chapter done, and we're finally at Hogwarts again. Any thoughts?


	21. Of Ladies and Lockharts

**Disclaimer**: I only own my own personal brand of insanity and annoyingness - don't blame J. K. Rowling for that. But the rest is hers.

**AN**: Thanks for reviewing, guys, you're the best readers in the world! Now, both you and I know there is no way to ascertain that, but it makes us all feel good, so I'll just leave it at that.

* * *

**Chapter 21: Of Ladies and Lockharts**

"Oi, Tippy, another round of butterbeer!"

"Yes, sir, Master Harry Potter, sir!"

Harry grinned as the cheery elf popped off, leaving Harry, Terry, and Michael alone in their little, secluded nook of the Hogwarts kitchen. He tilted his nearly empty mug to the side, swishing the caramel coloured liquid about. "This stuff, it's actually quite nice, you know - I do think it might be rather brilliant, actually. I wonder why they didn't serve it at the feast."

Terry dipped his finger in the foam. "Uh, the fact that's it's got alcohol in it?"

Michael snorted. "Yeah, imagine a bunch of drunk first years."

At that, Harry began to cackle, the gleeful noise soon descending into raucous laughter.

Michael quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"J-just...drunk...ha!" he gasped out, "Drunk...Luna - snorkacks! And nargles...ha- hi-imagine, all the first years drunk! L-luna, and Weasley...and...haha...that kid in Slytherin with the attitude! He..., ha! And Colin!" He suddenly sobered, shivering. "Colin Creevey...drunk..."

Terry, in turn, now burst out in laughter, as Michael rolled his eyes. Colin Creevey was a first year just sorted into Gryffindor...who wouldn't stop asking Harry for his autograph, and rather reminded him of Dobby the house elf. At first, Harry found it quite amusing - but that amusement, before long, turned to annoyance. When 'Professor' Lockhart joined in the spectacle, initiating a lecture on fame and obliging your fans, Harry was plagued with a combination of horror and fury, and using his uncanny (or rather, uncontrolled) skills in transfiguration, transfigured Lockhart's clothing into a rather lovely pink, frilly frock (design, circa 1882, for the use of young girls, of course), making a desperate escape. He had given his all to avoiding the two assailants for the last two days.

Suddenly, three mugs of butterbeer popped into existence in front of them, immediately snatched up by the three boys.

"Here's to the successful exorcism of Professor Cuthbert Binns -" Harry began grandly, holding his mug above his head.

"Again..." Michael muttered.

"- May he rest in boringness for the rest of his pathetic afterlife."

"Amen," Terry said, taking a big gulp of the sweet drink.

"You _d_o realize this is the third time that particular bit of conversation has taken place tonight," Michael drawled. "The same toast, over, and over, and over again..."

"And I could say it a thousand times more," Harry replied, grinning, "And it wouldn't get any less satisfying."

Michael simply scoffed, turning his attention to the mug of butterbeer in his hands.

"Which reminds me, I've been meaning to ask you two..."

"No." The answer was stiff and simultaneous.

Harry pouted. "I haven't even asked you anything yet."

"We know what you're going to say, mate," Terry said, "You want us to help you do away with Lockhart now."

Harry gaped. "Terry...you never told me you were a legillimens."

Michael rolled his eyes at his antics. "I still don't understand why you hate the man so much."

"Aside from the evil pedophile, serial killer-wannabe, 'I'm a sociopathic conman and I enjoy being a walking fashion disaster' vibe I keep getting off him?"

"Yeah, aside from that."

Harry let out an explosive sigh. "You _have _read his books, right?"

"Well, I know they're terrible, but -"

"No, it's not even that," Harry interrupted, "They're completely inconsistent - in every way. It's _impossible _that he's actually done everything he says he's done. And yet he parades about, declaring it was all him. Either he's a complete nutter or he's a glory snatching liar. Either way, both prospects irk me."

Terry shrugged. "You said yourself that he's an idiot, mate -"

"Yeah, an idiot, sure, but not about everything! He can't be. No matter how silly his fans are, he wouldn't be this famous if he was completely witless, if there was nothing more to it. He's incompetent, but still - you know, he was a Ravenclaw."

Both boys gaped. "No way."

"Yes way," Harry retorted, "Incompetent as hell, but I'd bet my right arm he's hiding something - being an excellent liar myself, I can say with absolute certainty that though that man's ability to tie his shoes is arguable, he's a top notch liar."

Michael squinted unhappily. "But how do you _know_?"

Harry shrugged in return, chugging down some more butterbeer. "Same way I knew about Quirrell. No one that lame can't _not _be evil."

* * *

Professor Narcissa Malfoy gingerly set down a pile of books at the desk in the front of the room, looking over the awkwardly shifting room of second years, obviously unnerved by her controlled silence. The sound of her footsteps amounted only to the sharp clicks of her heels; her presence was otherwise quiet and tranquil, and for some reason, the prospect of shattering that was one not even considered.

"What," she began suddenly, her voice cold, soft, and clear, "Is history?"

There was a chorus of blinks and shuffling feet.

The woman's eyes narrowed disapprovingly. "When I ask a question, I expect it to be answered."

Hermione Granger's hand immediately shot up.

Professor Malfoy froze as she laid eyes on the bushy-haired Gryffindor, left eye twitching as she seemed to wage an internal battle for a moment, before she all but choked out with a stiff face, "Yes, Miss…Granger."

Hermione nodded gratefully and spoke up. "History is the study of past events – it studies the origins and roots of these events, the details of how they happened, and also why they happened."

"…very good." Mrs. Malfoy quickly regained her composure. "The history of magic, then, should study the origin of magic, and the events surrounding it, as well as its development over time. That is what we will start to study this year."

Lavendor Brown's hand inched upward.

"Yes, Miss Brown."

"But didn't we do that last year?"

Professor Malfoy sniffed distastefully. "Cuthbert Binns was my _History _Professor also, Miss Brown, and so I know full well that what the late Professor Binns taught was not history – it was pages and pages of obscure historical fact. I know very well that you do not, nor will ever care who created the first flying broom and who first designed pewter cauldrons. You may, however, be interested, in the social reform that originated the sport of quidditch, and what sort of potions inspired the creation of a cauldron made from something other than silver. I will be teaching you history – which is not facts, but a reality – the reality of what once was, and gave birth to what we have today." She gazed at all of them piercingly. "Where, then do you think we will be starting?"

There was some hesitation amidst the students, before Anthony hesitantly suggested, "The beginning?"

"That is correct, Mr. Goldstein. The beginning of magic - the beginning of our civilization." She waved her hand gracefully, causing all the old, decrepit looking books lining the edge her desk to stand up in a row. "Can anyone tell me what these texts are?"

Harry look around the room of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, finding them all staring blankly at the row of books. Honestly, was he the only student who ever looked in the 'Ancients' section of the Hogwarts library? He sighed, slowly raising his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"The Theogony, The Iliad, The Aneid, Voluspa, and Havamal."

A small smile fleeted across the professor's lips. "And what, Mr. Potter, do these four texts have in common?"

"They're all poems – and, they all provide invaluable insight into early European paganism."

Many of the students were looking very confused at this, a few cringing, or looking slightly concerned.

"These are not stories," Professor Malfoy said, garnering some incredulous looks, "At the very least, they did not begin as thus – over the years they were embellished with fantasy, and were writ as such. But the secrets underlying these fantastic plots give us the origin of magic – the origin of witches and wizards….as children of the gods. There are some who would rather deny this heritage, and have you all ignorant of these facts. But they are not teaching this class – I am."

* * *

"Professor Malfoy had better be careful," Anthony mumbled as the second year Ravenclaws sat down at the table.

Kevin frowned at him. "Why?"

"Most pagan practices were outlawed during the time between the Renaissance period and Grindelwald's reign. Most of the stories that went along with them faded into obscurity," Padma piped up from behind them, before walking off to join Mandy on the other side of the table.

"Sorry," Kevin said, squinting, "I'm still not getting this."

Stephen glanced over at him amusedly. "If the ministry hears what she plans to teach us, then they may get suspicious of her. Especially given her husband's...reputation."

"Why?"

"Because," it was Michael who spoke this time, "It was only the old dark pureblood families that resisted the changes…families like the Blacks and the Malfoys. Most still are very unhappy about it, and some people think that this is what started the war. Paganism, in the context of history, carries a very bad stigma in the Ministry's eyes."

"But why were pagan practices outlawed in the first place, I wonder?"

The all jumped, hearing Hermione's voice as she sat down beside Harry, frowning thoughtfully, Neville beside her, seeming quite preoccupied with his egg sandwich.

"Most pagan magical practices carry a great deal more risk than normal spells, among other things," Harry muttered from beside her.

Michael snorted, murmuring "other things…" under his breath.

"What do you think about it, Harry?" Kevin asked him.

"To pepromenon phygein adynaton."

"Huh?"

"It is impossible to escape from what is destined," Luna Lovegood's dreamy voice drifted over them all, as she also sat down at the Ravenclaw table.

Harry nodded gratefully at her. "In that spirit, I would think that it is also impossible to escape from what has already occurred. It is simply a matter of what you choose to ignore."

"It's sort of like wearing red shoes," Luna said, smiling serenely, as though in the midst of a pleasant daydream, "You can't get away from the red, and you can't get away from the shoes, because you're wearing them."

"Exactly."

Terry smacked his head against the table. "That didn't make any sense…"

Harry scowled at him. "Yes, it does." He turned to Hermione, looking for support. "Doesn't it, Hermione?"

But Hermione, unfortunately, was sitting with her head in her hands, a sulky expression on her face.

Harry sighed exasperatedly, and could not help but wonder if her sudden sour mood was a result in what was her and Luna's first meeting.

_(flashback begins…now!)_

"Even though I don't have the class, I'm going to try and get an appointment with the arithmancy professor," Harry said, looking over the notes that Hermione had written over August.

Hermione nodded excitedly, the enthusiastic movement shifting the hard, awkward library chair. "I'd really like to talk to Professor Babbling, actually – I've found runes to be the most fascinating subject I've studied! One would think it would be rather obscure, being such an ancient art, but there are so many different branches of study and research! And you wouldn't believe the old lore on their origins, and all the ways that they can be used!"

"It is spectacular, isn't it –"

"Hello Harry the Horrible."

Harry glanced behind him, a smile lighting his face when he saw Luna Lovegood standing there, glancing wide-eyed between him and Hermione. "Hello Luna the Lunatic, why don't you sit down with us?"

"Why thank you." She smiled serenely at both of them, sitting down at the other side of the table.

"So what do you think of your classes so far?" Harry asked, pointedly ignoring the confused and slightly incredulous look on Hermione's face.

Luna tilted her head in thought. "They're rather wonderful, I suppose. Though…Professor Snape – I do think I need to speak to the nargles about him. He might need a bit of cheering up."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, lips twitching.

"What's a nargle?" Hermione suddenly said, drawing Harry's attention.

"They're little mischievous things that live in mistletoe."

"But they're wonderful company," Luna added.

"There's no such thing!" Hermione blurted out incredulously.

"Yes, there is," Luna said, fixing her piercing stare on Hermione, who shifted slightly under the scrutiny. "You're just like Professor Snape, you know."

Harry choked back a laugh, as Hermione instantly reddened. "What's that supposed to mean!"

"It means," Luna replied, "That you have a distinct lack of wrackspurts in your brain."

"What's a wrackspurt?" Hermione asked faintly.

"They're little buzzing creatures that eat your rational thought," Harry answered, Luna nodding beside him.

"But isn't it good that I don't have them then?" asked Hermione, shocked that she was even having the conversation in the first place.

Luna shook her head. "Not necessarily." She leaned in close, a dazed but sombrely conspiratorial look on her face, as she said grimly, "Because if there are no wrackspurts in your head, then the blubberfigs move in."

Hermione glanced frantically at Harry, who only shrugged.

"Not sure what those ones are."

"They make you narrow minded and not very fun at all," Luna explained, "If you don't get rid of them, you'll die an old spinster."

"Well that can't be good," Harry muttered bemusedly.

Hermione could do nothing but sputter at that, glaring at Harry.

_(flashback ends…now!)_

Ever since that encounter, Hermione had pointedly avoided Luna's company. Harry was quite confused, because he couldn't imagine someone not liking Luna, but he figured that she would get over it eventually. Shaking his head and refocusing on the conversation, Harry sighed. "Well, it still makes sense."

"Just keep telling yourself that, mate."

"Did you speak to the arithmancy professor?" Hermione asked abruptly, her voice slightly stiff as she attempted to change the subject of the conversation.

"Yeah, yesterday evening – she gave me a list of books to check out in the library…but I've got to get through Defense against the Dark Arts first." He shuddered.

"I've no idea why you dislike Professor Lockhart so much!" Lisa suddenly snapped from across the table, "He's a lovely man! And so brave to…" She sighed dreamily.

Harry snorted at that.

Lisa's glare returned full force. "Well it's true! Can't think of a reason for you to hate him –"

"The reason's quite simple, really."

"Oh?" she returned skeptically.

Harry leaned across the table conspiratorially. "I don't think he's human."

Luna was nodding sagely behind him.

"Well, then what is he?" Hermione asked distastefully from beside him – much to his chagrin, he had already discovered that Hermione had already fallen under the creep's spell as well.

Harry's eyes darted between them. "…an alien."

Hermione blanched, and Lisa blinked. "An alien?"

"Yeah…sent to earth by the Dark Lord of the Sith to blind us all to death with his dastardly smile – those bleached teeth will just get brighter, and brighter, and brighter, until, one day, POOF!"

Several at the table jumped.

"We all turn to ash."

Terry rolled his eyes, "Mate, that's really not going to happen."

Harry shrugged. "You never know. Either that, or he'll rot all our brains with his stupidity –" he was cut off as his head was smashed forward, courtesy of one Hermione Granger.

"Honestly," she said furiously, "You've got to show more respect! Going around, disregarding rules and insulting teachers!"

She swept out of her seat, stalking back toward the Gryffindor table.

Harry glanced back questioningly at Neville, who usually made a habit of following Hermione around like a little lost puppy. "You're not going after her?"

"I believe Sun Tzu would advise against it."

Harry laughed. Apparently some Chinese-style Slytherin cunning was doing Neville some good.

* * *

"Me," _Professor _Gilderoy Lockhart began five minutes after class was meant to start – he had ambushed Harry in the hall, placing an insistent hand on his shoulder and starting to, once again, go on about obliging his fans and the glories of fame and heroism; alarmed and caught off guard, Harry had planted an instinctual kick between the man's legs. Masculinity proven, the blonde menace arrived late, immediately strutting to the front of the class where he picked up Anthony's copy of _Travels with Trolls_, and mimicked the ridiculous, winking grin on the front. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of _Witch Weekly's _Most Charming Smile Award…but I don't talk about that –"

"But you are," Harry mumbled inaudibly.

"- I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by _smiling _at her!"

Perhaps that had worked on the Hufflepuffs, or maybe even the Gryffindors, but the Ravenclaws simply looked unimpressed with the weak humour. Harry was wishing that he had a bucket of rotten fruit with him.

"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books – well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about – just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in."

The man trotted through the rows of students, smiling magnificently at them all as he handed the test papers out. Returning to the class, he declared loudly, "You have thirty minutes – start – NOW!"

Harry looked down at the three pages with mounting horror, before a rather pleased grin came over his face.

_1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?_

_Gilderoy Lockhart does not know what colour is, because he never made it past preschool._

_2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?_

_To create a clone of himself so he can finally engage in his dirtiest narcissistic fantasies._

_3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?_

_Committing suicide. Oh, wait, he hasn't done that yet – never mind, ignore that…I don't know._

_4. What is the name of Gilderoy Lockhart's mother?_

_The thing in the closet. Or Medusa. I forget. Either way, she's very disappointed in him._

_5. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite food?_

_The pureed entrails of little boys drunk from a baby's skull. Seasoned with a dead hooker's eyelashes._

_6. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite outfit?_

_His Madonna cosplay. Obviously._

_7. Who was Gilderoy Lockhart's first love?_

_Himself._

_8. Who was Gilderoy Lockhart's second love?_

_His mirror. _

_9. Who was Gilderoy Lockhart's third love?_

_He had a secret crush on Lord Voldemort as a boy._

_10. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's middle name?_

_Moron._

Harry was grinning all the way down to the last question:

_54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?_

_Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday is on February 29th; his mother held off until then, so that she would only have to celebrate his birthday once every four years. His ideal birthday gift would be either a life or a nice shiny revolver so he could blow his own brains out. I'm sure he'd enjoy some multicoloured sex toys, though._

Harry smirked when Lockhart gathered up all the papers, beginning to rifle through them at the front of class, paling dramatically as he read through one of them – causing all eyes to land on Harry, who smiled innocently.

Regaining his composure, Lockhart looked over the class. "Tut, tut – hardly any of you remembered that my favourite colour is lilac. I say so in _Year with the Yeti. _And a few of you need to read _Wanderings with the Werewolves _more carefully – I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples – though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogdeds Old Firewhiskey!" He winked in a manner that was probably supposed to be alluring in some way, but only came out ridiculous.

Harry was sure, if the second year Ravenclaws weren't so horrified - who would have thought that their defense teacher would be even _worse _this year? - they would be laughing their heads of; even Padma, who had previously been thrilled that the fashion disaster would be teaching them, was starting to look doubtful. It appeared that only Lisa was holding onto hope, and hers was quickly failing.

"And so," Lockhart continued, oblivious to his students' dead stares, "To business." He bent down behind his desk – Harry silently begging that his pants would split in the process – lifting a large, covered cage onto it.

"Now – be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room –"

Harry snorted. _That _was bloody unlikely.

"- Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm. I must ask you not to scream," he said, voice lowering grimly, "It might provoke them."

With a flourish, he whipped the cover of the cage. "Yes – freshly caught Cornish pixies!"

At that, Terry could not help but burst out in raucous laughter.

Meanwhile, Harry stared at the cage musingly. Pixies were attracted to bright colours, weren't they?

"Yes," Lockhart smiled at Terry.

Harry could not help but notice that Hogwarts uniforms were black, unlike Lockharts colourful garb…

"Well," Terry barely managed through his giggles, "They aren't exactly dark creatures, are they? Let alone dangerous…"

Using a subtle nudge of wandless magic, Harry spun the cage slightly, so that the door was facing away from the students, and toward the professor.

"Don't be sure!" Lockhart declared condescendingly, "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be! Why once, while in Wales, I found a nest –"

"_Alohomora._"

And suddenly, all hell broke loose.

The nest of tiny, blue winged creatures burst out upon Lockhart, tackling him to the ground, tugging on his hair, cheeks and clothing, causing the man to shriek in surprise. Harry was grinning at the man's loud sputtering as he leapt out of his chair, shouting "Come on!" to his housemates, quickly ushering them out of the classroom as their movement caught the attention of some of the pixies, who began to dart after them with viciously mischievous grins on their faces. Once all the students, plus a few pixies, managed to evacuate, Harry pointed his wand at the door, uttering a quick locking charm. He doubted that Lockhart would be able to counter it anyway.

"Harry!" he suddenly heard Anthony snap, "_You _did that, didn't you!"

Harry cast his eyes over the students, observing their mixed looks of incredulity, shock, disapproving, and pride.

"Oh, come on. Can any of you say, truthfully, that he didn't have it coming?"

There was a long pause, his year mates glancing at each other with thoughtful expressions on their faces - Harry could clearly see the cogs turning in their minds. Finally, they all simply shrugged, content with being early for Herbology.

* * *

The next morning officially initiated the second week of classes – the Ravenclaws had Potions first thing, along with the Hufflepuffs.

Severus Snape was, without a doubt, in a foul mood. Now, normal people, when in a foul mood, scowl a great deal, snap on occasion, and often indulge in self-pity, curling up in a dark corner – but Severus Snape was no normal person; as it was so, the snarky, ill-tempered Potions Professor made quite sure that all his students knew _exactly _how incensed he was.

Hannah Abbot had already fainted three times, and Ernie, who looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, had not been allowed to take her to the hospital wing, being scolded for even attempting to wake the poor girl up. Zacharias Smith had been whacked over the head, three times, Terry had been the unfortunate victim of a stinging hex, and Harry was being constantly insulted. Not that he minded, really – he found it rather amusing.

"Abbot! How many times do I have to say it! Poison Ivy leaves need to be shredded, and berries need to be diced – on more dunderheaded blunder and I will shred and dice _you_, and use your mangled remains for a potion that requires the entrails of witless girls!"

She fainted, again.

BANG!

One of the cauldrons in the back on the Hufflepuff side of the room suddenly blew up, and was now oozing a sickly green goo onto the floor.

The class watched in stunned, horrified silence as the foul-smelling liquid slowly covered the floor, coinciding with the rate that a visage of cold, unbridled fury crept over the professor's face.

"Get out…" it started as a whisper, but not for long, quickly descending into a fiendish bellow, "Get out! NOW!"

In a flurry of whimpers and terrified gasps, the second year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs stampeded out of the room – that is, all but one Harry James Potter, who, unnoticed, slipped a four and ten of wands back into his pocket.

"Did you not hear what I just said, Potter?" Professor Snape spat dangerously.

"Oh, I did. I just felt bad, leaving you so…distraught," Harry said, sighing melodramatically.

"Potter…"

"I know what's got you down, you know – there was a staff meeting last night."

"Very astute of you," the professor sneered derisively, "Now if you don't –"

"And following it, you were left with the unquenchable urge to crucio Gilderoy Lockhart into insanity."

The professor's entire face twitched.

"The reason I know this is because, you see, I had my first class yesterday with him, and I was left with the same urge."

"Potter, if you do not desire to scrub this floor for the next two hours, I suggest you _get out now._"

Unfazed, Harry crossed his legs and folded his hands on his lap. "You see, professor, I think we see eye to eye on something for once – we both want Gilderoy Lockhart gone, and in the most painful way possible."

Harry could practically see the mixed emotions swirling around in the professor's black orbs, a determinedly sour expression coming over his face. "You must truly be a spoiled, arrogant _fool_ like your father if you think you can coax me into assisting you in getting rid of a professor that doesn't meet your high expectations. I would expect more intelligence and less Gryffindorish pride from a Ravenclaw."

Harry shrugged. "It was worth a try." He rose from his seat, gathering his books and heading toward the door.

"Potter." The frosty reluctance was evident in the professor's voice.

Lips twitching, Harry halted.

"The _truth _is oftentimes a painful thing, is it not?" the Professor said bitingly.

A grin stretched across Harry's face. "Yes sir. It really is."

* * *

"Whatchya lookin' at?"

Jean's voice cut through Harry's contemplative observation of the two letters in his hand. "One's from the Weasley twins." He smirked. "Detailing the arrangements for my first client."

"Ooh…" Jean said, eyes lighting up. "Who is it?"

Harry glanced down at the short note. "One Lavender Brown is requesting a palm reading. The time is two nights, in a closet on the fifth floor. The fee will be one galleon."

"Aww, come on. You gotta charge more than that!"

Harry shrugged. "It's just a palm reading, and we're just starting out – we've got to build up our clientele if we want to charge more."

"I guess…what about the other letter?"

"It's from Gringotts," Harry replied as he ripped the envelope open, pulling a few pieces of parchment out. His brows furrowed as he read through the letter, eyes rapidly flitting from line to line.

"Well, what does it say?"

"It's about the Black accounts, from Griphook." He grimaced. "Bugger. My head already hurts." He sighed, glancing over at the portrait. "My initial assumption was that due to the chaos after the war, the Ministry didn't want various relations to the Black family – and there _are _a lot; almost every witch or wizards seems to have some Black blood in them – making a fuss over who got what, so they just closed the account. But based on Griphook's research, that can't be the case – no one could possibly stake any claim on the Black fortune except for Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, me, and to a lesser extent, Barty Crouch Senior and Augusta Longbottom. Bellatrix Lestrange is in Azkaban like her cousin Sirius Black, and Barty Crouch and Augusta Longbottom are both stark supporters of the Ministry's reforms, and would have no interest in the fortunes of a 'dark' family. The money and control of the estates should have been divided between the remaining living members of the Black Family, and secondarily, to Professor Malfoy and me. Instead, the Ministry froze all the accounts."

Jean blinked. "How did they manage that?"

"That's what I don't understand. And Griphook seems confused too. Sirius Black was disowned in 1975 – Lord Black was Orion Black, Sirius's father, and after Walburga Black disowned Sirius, the legitimate heir was Regulus, Sirius's younger brother. After Regulus died, even though he was disowned, Sirius became the heir again, because there were no other possible heirs; upon hearing this, he wrote and filed a Will at Gringotts (instead of at the Ministry, oddly enough…) as the future Lord Black. After Regulus and Orion died, Walburga became the acting head of the family with the permission of Acturus Black, Orion's father, who left the country during the war and never returned; under normal circumstances, Sirius would have been made Lord Black right away, but because he was disowned by Walburga, he was unable to become Lord Black until her death in 1985. So basically, Sirius was heir to the House of Black from his birth in 1959 until he was disowned in 1975, and then again, after Regulus's death in 1979 until 1985. He was completely obsolete from 1975 until 1979, and then was made Lord Black in 1985."

Jean whistled. "That's some impressive research. Gotta love those goblins..." But then he grimaced. "Not that that's not confusing all on its own, but I don't see what you're so perplexed about."

Harry sighed. "When the Ministry froze the accounts, they allegedly did so because Sirius Black was a dangerous criminal with unknown connections and intentions, and his will and money were to be preserved as possible evidence or for prevention of further crimes. But here's the thing – Sirius's will didn't even become valid until 1985. The money was never his. Aunt Walburga never even noticed that the accounts were frozen, because she had everything she needed outside Gingotts, and was probably too beside herself with grief to care. Aunt Cassie and her brother Pollux probably noticed, but I think they wouldn't have wanted to place political and financial burdens on top of her already deteriorating health. So the accounts remained untouched, and no one's cared to look into it since."

Jean whistled. "That has cover-up written all over it."

"I know…it's like…" he frowned, remembering his brief meeting with Lucius Malfoy, "It's like the raids they conduct, to confiscate 'dark' artifacts – it's almost as though the Ministry wants to control the economic flow of the British wizarding community…" He glanced at Jean questioningly.

Jean shrugged. "I've always known the British Ministry was just a bunch of power-hungry control freaks. I wouldn't be surprised."

Harry snorted at the portrait's flippancy. "But why? I mean, if that was the case, what do they have to gain by controlling wizarding culture, society, and economics?"

Jean chuckled. "Oh, come on, coz, that's obvious."

"Er, no it isn't."

"Kid, what do people want most?"

"Uh…happiness?"

"Nope."

Harry sighed irritably. "What then?"

Jean raised an eyebrow, looking at Harry piercingly, before he shook his head. "Meh…you'll figure it out eventually."

* * *

Originally, Harry and Professor Snape were going to become accomplices in a dastardly plot to poison Lockhart - but I decided that that was a little over the top, even for me (and I _love _over-the-topness). So, yeah, I'm going the subtler route.

Anyway, thoughts on the chapter? Loved it? Hated it? Feeling the sudden urge to review it?


	22. Of Mysteries and Mudbloods

**Disclaimer:** I am dissing my claim on this.

**AN:** Hey internet-peoples! Thanks for reading and reviewing my humbly creative disaster.

* * *

**Chapter 22: Of Mysteries and Mudbloods**

"And finally, the Empress." Harry, from under his heavy black cloak, looked at the wide-eyed, blonde-haired Hufflepuff girl in front of him, staring at the arrangement of cards between them with undisguised, giddy hope. "In light of these five cards, I would say you have a good chance with Cedric Diggory – it may not be true love, but you'll enjoy each other's company…you just have to have the courage to ask. He'll respect you for that."

The girl practically squealed with delight. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" She pulled a couple of Galleons out of her pocket, setting them down and rising to her feet. "I can't wait to ask Cedric out!" She dashed out of the closet, her excited footsteps pattering down the corridor.

Harry sighed deeply, cancelling the voice-altering charm and removing the hood from his head. Leaning back against the wall, he watched the fire in his bowl of crushed bay laurel leaves dipped in blood wane and slowly die – that was the third tarot card reading he had done that night, and even with his meagre sacrifice, he was feeling exhausted. He glanced down at his watch – it was one o'clock AM, Saturday morning. When Fred and George arranged appointments, it was always during the middle of the night, and always in a different closet or storeroom on one of the upper floor corridors; though it had only been a couple of weeks, news had already spread of a mysterious Seer roaming the corridors at night…though Harry didn't actually do any roaming at all - he just sneaked off to appointments under his invisibility cloak.

Harry started, blinking blearily – apparently, he would be sleeping on the floor; he had no energy to make it back to Ravenclaw Tower. It had been a full day – he had had two morning classes, and had skipped lunch in favour of looking through the library for research.

The weight of Professor Snape's 'insult' had not been lost on Harry – clearly, the snarky potions professor was also of the opinion that Gilderoy Lockhart had a few more secrets than was healthy. So Harry had taken to researching truth serums. Not just the traditional veritaserum – but compounds, derivatives, and variations with additives which included essence of lavender (to be used as a relaxant), hemlock (to poison the serum), essence of hellebore (to strengthen the potion…enough would leave the victim in a permanent catatonic state), and morning glory seeds (to spice up the truth with related, fear induced hallucinations). Veritaserum was truly a versatile potion – but it was complex, and very difficult to brew…hence all the research.

In the meantime, Harry was working on a scheme to go along with the potion – once he managed to make the potion (the hallucinogenic variation, he was thinking), the trick was to administrate it at a time that would inflict maximum damage, and, at the very least, result in the sacking of the idiot (who, Harry thought, was certainly giving blondes a bad name).

Harry smiled sleepily as he recalled his preliminary plans. Sure, dosing the man with an amateur-brewed hallucinogenic truth serum was a little on the cruel side – but the beautiful thing was that the potion would only affect him as much as his dishonesty; if Gilderoy Lockhart happened to be an honest idiot, then he had nothing to worry about. However, if he was the conniving villain Harry thought him to be...the results would be fascinating. Harry could not help but wonder how much damage the potion would cause - oh well. God would forgive him. Probably.

* * *

Harry woke to the bright morning light shining through the cracks of the closet door, right into his weary eyes. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he blinked his eyes open, shielding them as he re-familiarized himself with the unwelcome sensation of being awake. Once his mind had sluggishly arrived to an alert and wakeful state along with his body, he proceeded to cast a _scourgify _and then a shrinking charm on the charred silver bowl, and also to shrink the black cloak he had been wearing, stuffing both in his pocket before vacating the broom cupboard.

It being a Saturday morning, he wasn't quite sure what to do – which meant he knew exactly where to go: the library. When in doubt, go to the library – the maxim had never failed him, not once. And so he made his way down to the Hogwarts library.

Once there, he wandered about for a while, enjoying the quiet – the library was empty, save for Madame Pince and a few upper year students. Most of the students were enjoying the last visages of summer outdoors. Eventually, Harry settled down with a book that had caught his eye; a book detailing the inner workings of the Ministry of Magic of Great Britain. And he was very fascinated with what he learned after skimming through only a few chapters.

Formed in 1616, the Ministry of Magic had seven main departments: The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, the Department of Magical Games and Sports, the Departments of Magical Transportation, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the Department of Mysteries. It was when Harry found the chapter on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that he began to take notes. The further divisions within the department were the Auror Office, the Department of Intoxicating Substances, the Improper Use of Magic Office, the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects, and the Wizengamot Administration Services. Apparently, if he were to take legal actions concerning Sirius Blacks imprisonment and the Black accounts, he would need to do so though Wizengamot – a high court of law governed by _politicians. _Whose brilliant idea was that?

It appeared that besides seats still held by the selected representatives of old wizarding families, there was a selection of members who were elected by the general public, and then a larger selection chosen by the Minister for Magic – all members had to be approved by the Chief Warlock (who happened to be Albus Dumbledore – that fact presented a whole new set of questions) or the Minister for Magic; only with sufficient proof of unreliability, a member of Wizengamot could be removed. It was rather disconcerting. Witches and Wizards were ultimately prosecuted, imprisoned and executed by a group of politicians? What about a jury? An actual _judge_? Harry made a mental note to avoid getting tried by Wizengamot for anything at all costs.

The Aurors, on the other hand, were actual trained law enforcement officers – which made Harry wonder if perhaps presenting a case to them would be a viable option. It was unlikely given the jurisdiction of the department, but still…

When he got tired of pondering over things that made him depressed and anxious, Harry turned to what sounded like, by title alone, the most interesting chapter in the book: the one on the Department of Mysteries. It was a department that carried out confidential research and development projects, completely separate from Wizengamot and the Minister for Magic – Harry liked the sound of the place already. Known divisions included the Time Room, the Space Chamber, the Love Chamber, the Hall of Prophecy, the Death Chamber, and the Brain Room. By the time he had read all this, he was fairly sure that the Department of Mysteries was, in fact, the most brilliant part of the Ministry of Magic, and was where all the smart people went to work. Apparently, the department was manned by Unspeakables, researchers whose identities were concealed; they even had the coolest titles of anyone who worked in the Ministry. Perhaps the profession of Unspeakable made a valid, legal career option; Harry could not help but consider this fact as he flipped through the pages, pouting absentmindedly about the lack of definitive information about the department.

Harry's musings, however, were suddenly disturbed by a sniffling sound coming from behind him. Frowning, he span about, surprised to find a glassy-eyed Hermione shifting awkwardly behind him, acting as though she was reluctant to approach him.

"Hermione?" he asked confusedly, cringing slightly at the 'I'm only just holding back the tears' look on her face.

"H-Harry," she began shakily.

Awkwardly rising to his feet and pulling her down into a chair beside his, he immediately inquired, "What happened?"

The girl sniffled slightly. "Nothing, r-really, just wanted to come inside, to the library…it's chilly out."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Really, Hermione? You shouldn't even try lying to _me_. You're a terrible liar, by the way. Downright atrocious."

She choked out a laugh, but then sobered, and bit her lip.

"If you came here, you obviously thought I could help somehow – so spit it out."

She sighed. "There was an…argument, outside by the quidditch pitch."

Harry nodded slowly. "And what happened?"

"It…it was Malfoy. I – I know I sh-shouldn't take anything he says to heart…it's just…just..."

Harry's eyes hardened, entirely forgetting his disconcertment at the prospect of a nearly crying Hermione. "What did he say to you?"

"There…there was an argument between the Gryffindor and Slytherin quidditch teams – Malfoy's father bought them all new brooms, and they were gloating over it. I – I stood up for the Gryffindors…I said that no one on the Gryffindor team had to _buy _their way on…"

Harry smirked, amused by her characteristic bluntness.

Hermione bit her lip. "But Malfoy, he…was really angry, and he called me a mudblood – and he said these awful things about my parents! I don't even want to repeat them…And I know…I know I shouldn't let him get to me, but…" She choked out a sob.

Harry paused, turbulently conflicted between outrage, disappointment, nervousness and fury. Finally, he let out a ragged sigh. "You're right, you shouldn't let it get to you...but you've a right to be upset about it too." Awkwardly, he took her hand in his. "Just remember, Hermione, that he hasn't met your parents, he doesn't know you – but I have, and I do. And I know your parents are wonderful people, best muggles I've ever met, and I know that you're one of the most brilliant witches I'll ever meet." His face twitched into a smile. "You've got everything going for you, Hermione – it's only the idiots that can't see that."

Sniffing, she wiped her eyes and smiled at him. "Thanks, Harry. I'm sorry...for bothering you."

Harry paid no mind to the last phrase. "No problem. And don't you worry about a thing – I'll take care of Malfoy."

"Harry," she said sharply, voice instantly growing sturdier, "You really can't start to go around cursing people for me. It's just like you said, he's only being an idiot."

"But sometimes idiots deserve to suffer for their idiocy."

She sent him a pleading look.

"Fine, fine. No cursing. Got it. Don't expect me to be nice to him, though."

"No, Harry – I don't want your other…friendships to suffer because of me. It's not right for you to be caught between Malfoy and I."

Harry grimaced. "It's not as though he just insulted you, Hermione – it was more than that, from what you've said."

"But I egged him on – it doesn't make it right, but please…I don't want you feel responsible for my feelings. Because you aren't."

"Fair enough." He plastered a smile on his face. "So, how about some Saturday afternoon research?"

* * *

"It makes sense now!" Hermione exclaimed excitedly, "Gebo and jera are used to absorb a miniscule amount of the person's magical signature – it's sent through a series of raido runes, and then on to the arithmantic matrix!"

Harry looked up from the book on permanent charms that he was taking notes from. "Exactly. My theory is, is if we can find a way to integrate the power transferred through the rune sequences with an electrical circuit, then we wouldn't have to alter the muggle electronics very much at all – the trick would be combining rune sequences and a complex arithmantic algorithm, contained in various intersecting matrices, to act as a filter, to collect the same ambient magic that prevents electronic devices from working normally, and convert it to electrical energy."

Hermione nodded rapidly, curls bouncing eagerly. "Once we can figure out a way to control the input and output of the filter, and develop a conversion factor, we could use it on anything! Televisions, computers, telephones…"

Harry chuckled. "Let's figure out how the runic base works, first."

Hermione deflated slightly. "And we also have to figure out how to make the conversion, instead of just mimicking it…especially since there hasn't been any real research done on it…we're in the dark here."

"And you know what that means," Harry grinned.

Hermione shifted nervously. "What?"

"Experiments!"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Carefully controlled and calculated experiments."

Harry waved her off dismissively. "Sure, sure …" He smirked, and ripped out a new page in his notebook, jotting down a few ideas, along with a reminder to order some materials for the experiments.

Meanwhile, Hermione peered over his arms at his notes, frowning and snatching away one of his notes. "What's this?"

Harry looked up, noticing one of his more gruesome doodles in Hermione's hand – it depicted the dead, mauled form (head crudely detached, a leg shredded, arms broken in bizarre positions, all lying in a pool of blood) of a fat, ugly man being torn apart by a skinny, dark haired woman, seeming to crawl out of a painting. It was his rendition of a possible meeting between Vernon and Walburga. "Just a…thing…"

"A thing," Hermione deadpanned.

"Yeah, you know, a doodle."

"What on earth possessed you to draw a doodle like that? It's positively dreadful!"

"Er…I…" Harry flipped through his list of excuses. "It…it's something I Saw, in a dream, a vision."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but then snapped it shut, starting on something else. "Speaking of _that_, what's this I hear of a Seer roaming the upper corridors?"

"Oh, that's, um, practice."

"Practice?" she asked dubiously.

"Yeah – you know, to expand my horizons, discover the innermost parts of my inner eye, gain insight into the inner workings of the Hogwarts student psyche…and make some profit while I'm at it."

"Harry," she replied sharply, "You know –"

Suddenly, their conversation was disturbed by the sound of a throat clearing behind them, causing them to spin around.

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed. "W-What are you doing here?"

The boy shifted slightly, a slight blush painting his freckled cheeks – causing Harry to raise an eyebrow. "I, um, I just wanted you to know, thanks for what you said, defending the Gryffindor team…we didn't let Malfoy get away with what he said to you earlier."

Hermione opened her mouth, no doubt to scold him, before Harry kicked her leg slightly and nodded to Ron, gesturing for him to continue.

The red haired boy removed his hands from behind his back, pulling out two small pieces of paper from behind his back. "I cursed him real good; and, well, Colin was there, so we got pictures."

At Harry's overtly gestured urgings, Hermione reluctantly took the pictures from him, Harry looking over her shoulder and laughing when he saw the image of his blonde haired cousin vomiting slugs.

"Good work, Weasley, couldn't have done it better myself!" Harry said, standing up and clapping the boy on his back.

"Uh, thanks," he replied abashedly, offering a lopsided smile as he looked at Hermione. "Everyone was furious, Hermione – Malfoy won't bother you again."

Hermione smiled slightly. "Thanks, Ron."

"Well, you are a Gryffindor, after all – and we have to watch each other's backs. You watched our backs at exam time...by the way, I never got a chance to tell you, but the potions exam you helped me study for – I didn't fail that."

"Oh, well, good job! I suppose you're finding it a lot easier, then?"

"Er…"

She looked at him curiously. "What?"

"Well, not _easier _really…actually, I… was, uh, gonna ask if maybe you could help me with my potions assignment? You know, if you're not too busy…" He glanced over at Harry.

Hermione rolled her eyes, and looked over at Harry, who shook his head. "Nah, we were just about finished for now. I've got to take care of some other things, anyway. I'll see you around, Hermione, Weasley."

"Harry!" Hermione called as he began to walk away, causing him to look over his shoulder.

"Malfoy's learnt his lesson, there's no reason for you to go after him now, right? I mean, he's your cousin, so…"

Harry sighed. "Don't worry about it, Hermione. I won't do anything."

She smiled brightly at him.

Smiling back, he swept around and out of the library, taking note of the still-warm glow of the afternoon sun as he continued down the stairs at a brisk pace; before he stopped suddenly, feeling an intense pair of eyes on his back. Swirling about, he glanced toward the source.

"Luna?"

The blonde haired girl smiled slightly, before the expression disappeared. "You shouldn't do that."

Harry frowned. "Do what?"

"Lie to her. If you keep doing that, gribberdoofs will eat your relationship."

Harry blanched. "I…I didn't lie."

Her blue-grey eyes were wide, sincere, and unrelenting. "Yes you did. I think she would be very cross with you if she knew."

"Well…that's why I didn't tell her."

"But then the gribberdoofs…"

Harry sighed, looking up at her, distraught. "I know…it's just…there are some things I can't just leave be, Luna – I'm very angry at my cousin, right now; and if he doesn't let go of his outdated prejudices soon, trouble will find him all on its own, with or without my help. I might as well vent my frustration and teach him a lesson at the same time."

She tilted her head to the side. "So that makes it alright to lie to your other friend?" she asked with genuine curiosity.

"I didn't lie," Harry defended himself, "I just didn't tell the whole truth. I _won't _do anything to Draco…not yet, anyway. They do say that revenge is a dish best served cold. All I'm going to do, right now, is ignore him."

Luna frowned, looking very confused. "But is lying the words you say or the intentions you have?"

Harry's face scrunched up confusedly. "Huh?"

"Well, if you intended to hide things from Hermione, would it be a lie even if all your words were true?"

Harry blinked, unnerved and curious all the same. "Um…I don't know."

Luna blinked, staring off into space. "Oh. Neither do I."

Slightly disconcerted, Harry simply nodded slowly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "Well, I'll be seeing you around, Luna. Don't fall down the stairs."

She smiled serenely at him. "I was considering it, but the plitplutters told me it would hurt too much."

Harry nodded. "They were probably right."

She nodded. "They always are. Goodbye, Harry." And with that, she skipped off, humming an incoherent tune.

Sighing and shaking the odd encounter out of his head, Harry continued down the corridor he had found himself on, heading towards Ravenclaw Tower. Near the outer wall of the castle, the corridor was rather dank, and being on the east side, it was gloomily dusky as of the late afternoon. The hall was quiet, save for Harry's light footfalls and a faint, echoing dripping sound emanating from an indiscernible location – and Harry could not help but muse that the students were still probably all outdoors, enjoying the last visages of warm weather and sun. He was utterly alone, and that was why he was so shocked when he heard a voice –

_:Rip…tear…kill…:_

He froze, immediately paling at the eerie, whispering voice, a familiar, slippery tone, seeming to creep into the corridor from the walls.

_:Blood…kill…kill…:_

Steeling himself, he tried to call out, _:Hello? Who's there?: _

He slapped a hand over his mouth when he realized that he was speaking in Parseltongue. Which meant...the mysterious voice belonged to either another Parselmouth, or a snake...also implying that his elusive companion either was a psychotic, murderous human who was probably related to him, or a vicious snake looking for something to kill. Harry didn't like either of the possibilities.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced behind him, from whither the voice had seemed to come from, and then to either side, before darting forward, not daring to look back as he made it to Ravenclaw Tower in record time.

* * *

Blech...sort of a boring chapter - it's entire purpose is to set up the next chapter...


	23. Of Samhain and Surprises

**Disclaimer:** Consider this story disclaimed

**AN:** Thanks for reading and enjoying and reviewing! I am eternally grateful (I think...I really can't speak for eternity).

* * *

**Chapter 23: Of Samhain and Surprises**

"_Togaidh mise chlach,  
Mar a thog Moire da Mac,  
Air bhrïgh, air bhuaidh, 's air neart;  
Gun robh a chlachsa am dhïrn,  
Gus an ruig mi mo cheann uidhe."_

Harry plopped the last stone in his pocket, glancing behind him at his companions.

A few feet away, Hermione, Fred, George, and Luna stood, watching him with varying degrees of interest as he fetched three stones from the small creek that tumbled and meandered over the Hogwarts grounds, chanting the little verse as he dropped them in his robe pocket. He could not help but observe that Fred and George looked rather amused by the ordeal, whilst Luna appeared sleepily excited, and Hermione simply looked put-off.

"Alright, who's next? I'll just warn you now, though, the Gaelic's a bitch to pronounce."

"Why are we doing this again?" Hermione asked uneasily, staring at the drenched sleeves of Harry's uniform, and then at the other three students.

"Because, Hermione, Samhain is a wonderful time for divination – hell, even muggles can perform divination on the 31st! We're fetching dreaming stones, so that you can experience some oneiromancy, or dream divination tonight."

"They also drive away the migg-mares that live in your pillow and eat your dreams," Luna added, skipping up to the stream, proceeding to sing the poem as she placed three stones in her pocket.

Harry smiled at her. "Exactly – I just wanted to give you a taste of the obscure art."

Hermione nodded slowly, then looked at Fred and George. "And what are they doing here?"

Both twins gave a mock bow.

"My dear,"

"We are an essential part"

"Of this here operation."

Fred winked. "You didn't really think that Harrykins here"

"Managed to find a secret passage out of the castle all on his lonesome?"

Hermione glared at them slightly, then turned to Harry again. "How do they know about you anyway?"

Harry shrugged. "'S only fair."

Hermione looked as though she wanted to argue, but only sighed, shaking her head wearily as Harry turned to Fred and George with a grin.

"You two want to try it?"

"Well we would…"

"Except…."

"You forgot the chant already," Harry supplied.

Both of the twins winced sheepishly.

"No matter," Harry dug into his pocket, pulling out a small piece of parchment. "I wrote it down, just in case."

"You're the best, Harry."

"I know."

The twins took the parchment, grinning at him and then at each other as they went over to the stream, whither Luna still stood, oddly fixated on a curiously gnarled tree root protruding from the bank.

Harry glanced over at Hermione. "Come on, you know you want to try too!"

She looked at him sourly. "How does this work again?"

Harry sighed. "The stones open your mind and act as a filter for the gods, who plant messages in your mind, in the form of dreams. That's the basic gist of it."

Hermione bit her lip. "I'm not sure I like the ideas of pagan deities shuffling through my head…"

"It's not like that, Hermione – the connection's really weak, the dreaming stones just plant impressions that inspire dreams, is all. Not even a real vision - there are some scholars that believe all dreams come from divinities either way. This just...spices it up a little. People did it for _centuries _as part of the Samhain celebration - a common practice, really. Come on, it'll be good for you."

"Well why've I never heard of it if it's so common?"

"Well, it sort of fell out of regular practice a while back..."

She narrowed her eyes. "And it's perfectly legal?"

Harry faltered a moment. "Well, depends what you mean by legal..."

"Ministry approved," she ground out.

"Well, it's not _perfectly _legal, but it's not _illegal _either – "

Hermione scowled at him.

"You know how the Ministry feels about anything pagan – it's not like they could really give us anything more than a slap on the wrist if they found out. Come on, 'Mione, live a little!"

"Mione?" she asked distastefully.

"Yeah 's a nickname. You can call me Harry the Horrible, if you want."

She heaved a heavy sigh, rolling her eyes. "I have to pick up the stones between my middle finger and my thumb, right?"

Harry grinned. "That's right."

He watched with amusement as she reluctantly made her way over to the stream, rolling up her sleeve and determinedly glaring at the stream whilst she recited the Gaelic verse with careful precision.

"Oi Harry," George called.

"We just put these under our pillows tonight?" Fred asked.

Harry nodded, looking up at the greying scarlet sky. "The stones are fetched at dusk, and they should begin to work at midnight. Just make sure you're in bed by then."

"Yes mum."

"We don't know what we'd do without you,"

"Sweet mother dearest."

Harry scowled. "I hope you get sent a vision of your own bloody, gruesome deaths."

He rolled his eyes as the pair of redheads feigned anguished tears.

Having finished collecting her dreaming stones, Hermione trudged over to them, gesturing toward the bleeding western horizon. "We need to get back, now, before someone notices we're not at the feast."

Harry sniffed. "It's not a crime to miss the Halloween feast, Hermione."

She rolled her eyes. "When you're the one doing it, anything could be a crime. I can name at least five teachers and prefects off the top of my head who would take points even if you just left to go to the loo."

"Fine, fine," Harry relented, pouting, "Let's go. You coming Luna? The feast won't wait all night for us, you know!"

The blonde girl smiled serenely, spinning slightly as she stumbled over to them, the company of two Ravenclaws and three Gryffindors then beginning to make their way back to the castle. "I think the dreaming stones are early this year – I just had a dream that the nargles invited me to a ball and danced with me…I was wearing purple slippers." She leaned over to Harry's side, whispering, "But the wrackspurts crashed the party - they put strange things in the punch..."

Harry grinned. "That sounds like a very fun party, Luna. I should like to be invited when it happens," he said, as the group of five traversed the slightly rolling, windswept hills that embraced the outer walls of the castle, nearing the door that led to one of Fred and George's many secret passageways that sneaked out of the castle. It was a short, dingy passage that delved through the castle wall, opening up behind one of the statues in the corridor not far from the Great Hall, the windows of which were already glittering with light and liveliness, the Halloween feast clearly well underway.

"Race you to the castle," Fred and George told each other with a grin simultaneously, when the passage door came into view, before darting off, Luna following them with a dainty gait and calling,

"Do be careful that you don't step on any moon frogs!"

"Yeah, they'll eat your toes off!" Harry added.

"I don't know why you indulge her like that – you're never even polite to most people," Hermione suddenly murmured beside him. "And then, when she says these silly things, you…"

"I what?"

"You play right along! It's ridiculous!"

Harry glanced over at her with a raised eyebrow. "Can you prove anything she says wrong?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Of course not, but –"

"Then Luna is entitled to believe what she likes – you shouldn't begrudge her for it."

Hermione sighed. "That still doesn't explain why you let her go off and think what she likes without saying a word about it, when you're always so obstinately opinionated about everything else."

"I only correct people when they're being idiots or they're wrong – Luna is neither…she's just different. I don't know why no one seems to understand that." He held open the wooden, iron hinged door for Hermione, following her in. "Most everyone thinks she's insane, and won't even talk to her…it's…I dunno…"

Hermione smirked slightly, "Aw…is Harry actually feeling sympathy for someone? Perhaps he wants to save the poor damsel in distress? Sweep her off her feet and carry her away?"

"No! I just don't like it, is all."

Hermione nodded knowingly. "Sure, whatever you say."

"Oi, you two!"

"Slow pokes!"

"Hurry up, or you'll miss the feast!"

Harry chuckled when he heard Fred and George's shouts from the corridor, ducking through the trap door and weaving about the statue, finding them waiting on the other side, with Luna in the middle of a staring match with one of the other statues on the far side of the corridor.

"Honestly," Fred started.

"You'll never accomplish anything in life at that pace."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Come on, we've got a feast to invade – cakes to capture, puddings to pillage, sweets to sack, pumpkin juice to –"

_:…rip…tear…kill…:_

"Harry?" Hermione frowned, looking over to the black haired boy, who had frozen stiff in the middle of his sentence, arms suddenly limp by his side, fingers twitching anxiously.

"Oi, mate?"

"You alright?"

Harry snapped out of his daze, finding even Luna staring at him. "I…"

_:Blood...blood...I smell blood...kill...kill...:_

Harry sucked in a harsh breath. "It's back..." He glanced down the dusky, flickering shadows of the corridor that the hissing voice had echoed down from, unable to resist the sudden urge to follow it in favour of fleeing.

"Hey, Harry! Wait! Wait up!"

"Oi, mate whatchya runnin' off for?"

Harry vaguely registered the pattering of the other four's footsteps behind him, but squashed the urge to go back and deter them as he suddenly came to a halt, caught in a dead end, walled in by sheer stone that should have been blank, clean of all but dust and the dancing light of the torches – but it wasn't.

Several gasps broke out from behind him, and he did not have to look over his shoulder to perceive the horrified, bewildered looks marring the Gryffindor's faces, and grimly fascinated one on his housemate's; for above them, large, sweeping letters of dripping crimson, glittering in the shimmering light of the dim torches were written the words:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE

"H-Harry?" Hermione asked shakily from behind him, the shuffling of her feet making a splashing sound in the puddle coating the floor. "W-what is this?"

"I don't know," Harry murmured, reluctantly stalking nearer to the hairy, bedraggled shape hung from the base of one of the torches, frowning uneasily when he recognized it. "But this…this is Mrs. Norris."

"The cute kitty-cat with the pretty red eyes," Luna sighed sadly.

"Oh no...oh no," Hermione whispered. "Who on earth could have done this?"

Harry simply continued to stare at the cat.

"Er, mate, we should get out of here," George suddenly spoke up, followed by, Fred's, "We _don't _want to be found in the middle of this."

"Whatever _this _is," Harry muttered, but then stilled, as the rushing sound clattering footfalls bellowed down the corridor.

Luna tilted her head to the side. "Too late. Unless we try walking through that wall…" her eyes trailed off down the corridor.

Within moments, the five of them were surrounded by a crowd, filling the corridor with hushed voices and quickly paling faces. Many of the upper years looked starkly horrified, recognition flashing in their eyes as they read the script on the wall, whilst the lower years mostly looked very perplexed, except one face that Harry immediately, for some reason, picked out of the crowd – Ginny Weasley, whose face had lost all its colour, as she shook silently, looking to be on the verge of a panic attack; only steadied by the strong grip of an invisible force on her shoulders.

Most of the Slytherins, however, did not look nearly as unnerved – in fact, many of them looked cruelly amused by the ordeal. From within the group of Slytherins, a sudden loud, excited voice sounded out,

"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

It was Draco, who was immediately cowed by the viciousness of the glare Harry directed at him. The last few weeks, since the incident with Hermione, Draco easily noticed Harry's sudden coldness toward him; they had argued briefly about what had happened a week prior - ironically, it had been Hermione who had broken up the fight - but in the end, nothing was resolved, so the Slytherin had taken to watching his back far more than usual.

Suddenly, another voice called out hoarsely, "What's going on here?"

The crowd of students parted for one frazzled Argus Filch, a look of pure, unadulterated horror coming over his face as he clutched his chest, shrieking, "My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?" The man frantically tossed his head about, eyes coming to rest on Harry. "_You! _You killed her, you murdered Mrs. Norris!"

Harry blinked. Well, that certainly wasn't good.

* * *

In the end, Harry had been cleared of all charges – apparently, no second year would have been able to petrify (yes, it was petrified, not killed) a cat like that. Now, despite the fact that it seemed to vaguely imply his incompetence, Harry was quite alright with this judgement, and was not at all eager to be given any more detentions, or lose more house points.

However, the fact that the he, Hermione, Fred, George, and Luna were cleared of suspicion in the professors' eyes did not stop the rumours from spreading. As of the next morning, there were already several theories: that things simply were as they seemed, and the five students were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time; that it was some elaborate prank that Harry and the twins had cooked up, and had coerced the two girls into assisting them; and that the five of them had something to do with the opening of the actual Chamber of Secrets, whatever that was.

Which was yet another thing on Harry's mind. What was the Chamber of Secrets? What did it do? Where did it come from? And who came up with a lame name like the 'Chamber of Secrets' anyway?

Apparently, those very questions had been on Hermione's mind as well, as, once in history class on November the 1st, she immediately staged the inquiry,

"Professor, could you tell us something about the Chamber of Secrets?"

The professor, who had seemed even paler than usual that morning, froze, a strange look flashing in her eyes – something of mingled anger, fear, and trepidation, and something else unreadable. After a moment, she opened her mouth. "The Chamber of Secrets is a legendary secret room in Hogwarts Castle, created not long after Hogwart's founding. This school was originally built by four extraordinary witches and wizards: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin." She paused, observing her students' faces, raptly attentive. "While their efforts were harmonious at first, as they attempted to seek out and educate magical children in Britain, Salazar Slytherin grew dissatisfied with the others' methods – he felt that bringing in children with muggle parentage was unsafe and distasteful. In the end, Slytherin's ideals caused a rift between him and the others too great to mend, and he left the school. "

Her eyes fluttered over to the window. "But not before he left something behind. They say…that Salazar Slytherin built a chamber in the school, the Chamber of Secrets, before he left – and within the chamber he stowed an unstoppable weapon, one that could purge the school of all he thought to be unworthy of studying magic. It is said that only his true heir could open the chamber, and that it would be up to this heir to purify the school."

A thoughtful silence hung in the air of the classroom as she finished, many of the students looking far more pale and unnerved than before.

Slowly, Pavarti Patil raised her hand.

"Yes, Miss Patil?" Professor Malfoy asked softly.

"It…it's not real, is it? It hasn't actually been opened?"

Professor Malfoy hesitated only briefly, which Harry couldn't help but notice. "There is no evidence that there is a Chamber of Secrets at all – it is most likely only a curious tale meant to frighten the weak of heart, not unlike the stories you were told as children. Centuries have passed, and none among the Hogwarts staff or students have ever found a Chamber of Secrets. There is no reason to believe you ever will."

"Maybe it's hidden," Seamus Finnegan spoke up, "You know, by dark magic. Maybe that's why no one's ever found it."

"Just because a witch or wizard isn't 'dark', Mr. Finnegan, doesn't mean that they are incapable of recognizing or performing dark magic. I can assure you the Headmaster Dumbledore is perfectly capable of casting the Imperious curse, for example. If anything, had Salazar Slytherin used dark magic to hide his chamber, it would have been discovered years ago."

"So..." Anthony said, "There isn't a Chamber of Secrets."

"That is the most reasonable consensus."

"But last night –"

"Was a cruel hoax – and believe me when I say that the culprit will be caught soon and punished harshly." She looked over the uneasy faces of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. "Class dismissed."

Harry cast a knowing glance which clearly unnerved Mrs. Malfoy as he filed out of classroom, Terry and Michael walking beside him.

"Harry!"

He turned about, seeing Hermione, Ron, and Neville approaching as they made their way to the Great Hall.

"Harry, what do you think?" she said.

Harry blinked, nodding at the two boys behind her in greeting. "What do I think about what?"

She scowled. "About the Chamber of Secrets, what Professor Malfoy said."

Harry shrugged.

"Well, I think it's real," Ron Weasley suddenly spoke up from behind them, "I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a sneaky, evil..."

"You never met him," Harry deadpanned.

"But still -"

"I sure hope the chamber isn't real," Neville mused nervously.

Hermione reached over and patted him on the arm. "I'm sure it's just like Professor Malfoy said - a hoax."

"Yeah, right," Harry muttered.

Michael looked between them both, eyes focusing on Hermione. "Are _you _going to tell us what happened last night? Because Harry won't say a word, and Luna's account is perfectly incomprehensible...something about wrackspurts, moon frogs, and slashkilters..."

Hermione glanced at Harry uneasily. "I…don't really know. We were all just on our way to the Halloween feast, and then…Harry heard something, I guess, and we just found the wall like that. There isn't much to tell…"

"But why weren't you at the feast in the first place?" Terry asked in turn.

Harry interjected here. "I was doing some research in the library with Hermione – Luna was sitting with us. We met Fred and George on the way back…they said something about playing a prank on some Hufflepuffs."

"So you really have no idea what happened?" Terry said disappointedly.

"Nope."

"And you had nothing to do with it?" Michael inquired suspiciously.

"Nothing at all. It was just a bit of bad luck on my part."

* * *

"...So rest assured, I shall bravely slay whatever creature haunts this castle, for Gilderoy Lockhart fears no man or beast…"

Harry rolled his eyes as Lockhart continued rant blindly, strutting across the classroom. The entire class, he had paced back and forth, expounding upon his own greatness and how all the students were safe since he would vanquish the monster in the Chamber of Secrets. All that being said to emphasize that Harry was very, _very _bored.

Finally, very nearly infinitely frustrated, he stuck his hand in the air, clearing his throat loudly. But Lockhart was too involved in his speech to notice.

"Courage is truly a wonderful thing. Why, I still remember back when -"

"Oi! Moron!" Harry tried again through gritted teeth.

This time, the man snapped to attention, causing Harry to smirk. "Oh! Mr. Potter – fifteen points from Ravenclaw for interrupting me –"

Several groans were heard - it was a common belief that Lockhart was too intimidated by Harry to give him detention, so he simply took points.

"- Now, as I was saying…"

"I had a question, professor, about your…vanquishing." Harry pressed on.

Lockhart blinked, but then plastered a ridiculously pleased grin on his face. "Oh? My dear boy, what would you like to know?"

"Well, I was wondering how you were actually going to go about vanquishing this beast, you know."

"Well! First, I would lure it away from the innocent students, and challenge it to a duel! And then, I would fire an incendio spell at it, both debilitating it, and awing it with my power, and causing it to surrender to my greatness!"

"But what if it dodged your incendio, professor?"

He faltered. "What?"

"What if the beast dodged your incendio, professor," Harry repeated, then lapsing into 'lecture mode,' "It's quite a reasonable and likely scenario. Now, hypothetically, if I was the beast, I would be pretty furious, and before you could curse me again, I would immediately go for your legs, so that you couldn't get away. I'd just break them in multiple places, though – or perhaps crush them, both muscle and bone…because if I tore them off, then you'd bleed out immediately. I think I'd go for your arms, next, make sure that you couldn't try anything – I'd probably rip your hands off at the wrist, snapping all the tendons and bones in there, perhaps breaking your arms at your elbows first. And if I were the beast, I'd go for the lower abdomen next – because so long as you didn't bleed out, you could remain alive even after tearing apart your lower body; I've read stories of people burnt at the stake, where their lower body melts away and their entrails fall out while they're still alive. One that note, I'd start by unwinding and tearing out your intestines – depending on the sort of beast, it could eat them as well, I suppose – relishing the hot, thick blood and bits and pieces of mangles tissue and shattered bone. And then, if _I_ was the beast, I'd probably try to scalp you or something before tearing your throat out and lapping up all the blood. So you see, professor, you might want to think through this whole vanquishing plan a little more."

Harry glanced about the classroom, taking in the stunned silence appreciatively. He was hard pressed not to cackle out loud when an extremely pale Gilderoy Lockhart stumbled over to his desk, nearly collapsing against it as he squeaked, "Class dismissed."

As the students quietly filed out of the classroom, Padma immediately muttered, "I think I'm going to be sick."

Mandy nodded rapidly and shot off toward the girl's bathroom.

Anthony turned a sickly pallid face to Harry, snapping uneasily, "That was a bit much, don't you think?"

Harry shrugged. "He was asking for it. Wasting our precious time with nonsense like that."

"Mate," Terry said, "I think you scarred him for life – bloody hell, I think you scarred _me _for life."

"You'll get over it. And I don't care if he doesn't."

"Well I liked it," Michael (who had been glaring at Lockhart the whole class) put in, clapping Harry on the shoulder, "A perfect end to the lecture, I thought."

"You would," Lisa jumped in, scowling, "Both of you! No tact at all! It's ridiculous."

"Oh, come on, Lisa, don't tell me it didn't feel just a little good – a bit of revenge is good for the soul."

She only sniffed and walked away.

* * *

Herbology was a quiet class, with the Slytherins – without the noisy idiocy of the Gryffindors and the amusingness of Neville's inexplicable obsession with plants, Harry found the class quite boring.

Thankfully, it passed quite quickly, and Professor Sprout even let them out a bit early, seeing that they all were beginning to fidget as the dinner hour drew near. Dinner was what Harry had been looking forward to all day, really – he was anticipating some pudding that night, and was hoping for custard for desert. His quick pace toward the Great Hall, however, faltered when he heard a reluctant voice call from behind him,

"Harry?"

He sighed looking over at the other Ravenclaws. "I'll meet you at dinner."

Terry frowned. "You sure? 'Cause…"

"Yeah, I'll be right with you."

Michael shrugged and dragged Terry off, Anthony sparing Harry a warning glare before he followed the others.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry asked the blonde haired boy tonelessly, noticing that Crabbe and Goyle stood a ways off, apparently trying to spare them some privacy.

"Look," Draco began, "I know you're angry about what happened with Granger. I…" He gritted his teeth. "It won't happen again, alright."

Harry stared at him coldly. "It's fine to tell me that, Malfoy, but what about Hermione? You going to apologize to Hermione? At least tell her you regret it or _something?_"

The blonde boy faltered. "You can't be serious…"

"I _am _serious, Malfoy, very serious. You've no right to speak to her like that – sure, she insulted you, but we both know it wasn't enough to deserve what you said."

"She started it!"

"That's not the point! You told her that she and her family are as worthless as dirt, and that she doesn't deserve to have magic! Do you really believe that? That because her parents are muggles, she doesn't deserve to be here?"

Draco hesitated, gritting his teeth. "Why's this so important to you anyway?"

"Because she's my friend, and I...she's a good person. She makes mistakes, she says things that she shouldn't - but she admitted it, Malfoy, right in front of you last week, and you just shrugged it off! How's that fair? And moreover, if I just let you say whatever you want to my friend, what does that say about me? It means that Hermione can't trust me!" He almost cringed, saying that, feeling the hypocrisy of his words. All he was doing was proving that Hermione couldn't trust him anyways...he shook his head. "Remember last year? With the troll? Hermione did her best to cover for us, both of us – the only reason we didn't lose a whole lot of points was because she stood up for us. We _at least _owe her some respect, both of us do."

Draco's cheeks were tinted pink. "I won't apologize to that mu-" He stopped short, a scowl on his face.

Harry glowered back. "Fine, then. How about a wager?"

Draco frowned. "A wager."

"Yeah – a duel. I win, you apologize to Hermione. You win, and we forget about the whole thing."

A sour look came over Draco's face, and Harry could easily see his pride conflicting with his common sense. "If we…do this, you'll tell me what you know about what happened with the Chamber of Secrets?"

Harry blinked, but then rolled his eyes. "Sure."

"Fine, then. Deal. When do we –"

"Now."

"Now?" Draco asked, concern in his voice.

"Yeah, right now – let's get this over with. No witnesses, no seconds, no formalities, let's just fight until one of us gives up."

Draco shakily drew his wand. "Ready?"

Harry drew his own wand. "Of course."

Simultaneously, both boys fired off an _expeliarmus_, darting out of the way.

Draco immediately cast a couple of hasty stinging hexes Harry's way, which he dodged with a spin.

In retribution, Harry shot a _petrificus totalis _and an _impedimentia _in quick succession, using the distraction to dart to the other side of the corridor, quickly followed by a steady stream of Draco's stunners.

Suddenly, though, Harry stopped short and shot to the other side of one of Draco's stunning spells, using the time it took for Draco to turn around to fire a tripping jinx at the other boy's legs.

By the time Draco made it to his feet, Harry had been able to draw up his concentration sufficiently to aim a focused _incendio _to the corner of his robes.

Startled, Draco let out a panicked shout, and as he frantically attempted to shrug off his robe; but as he did so, Harry called out,

"_Locomotor Mortis!"_

sending the blonde-haired boy tumbling to the ground.

Desperately, Draco gripped his wand tight and shouted, _"Serpensortia!"_

"_Flagrante!"_

Harry had aimed the spell at Draco's wand, causing the boy to drop it as it seared his skin – but not before a long black snake shot out, slithering forward. The snake – a beautiful, but young black mamba, Harry quickly recognized – stopped, though, when it saw him, hesitating, and then turning its gaze back toward Draco, who was lying on the floor and cradling his burnt hand.

Suddenly, the snake, with an obviously angry look on its face, turned around, swiftly making its way back to a very startled and terrified blonde Slytherin.

Harry blanched as the snake turned away, panicking as it continued to near his cousin at an increasing rate – if the serpent was of the magical variety, Draco would be dead within minutes if its powerful neurotoxins entered his system.

_:Stop! Don't hurt him!:_

The soft, breathy hissing quality of his voice drained the atmosphere of all sound – Harry froze, the snake froze, and Draco froze, all at once. As the mamba slithered to the side submissively and Draco stared at him with undisguised, awed shock, Harry cringed – of all the thoughtless things he could have done...

"Well shit."

Bad luck really _did _follow him around.

* * *

So...uh...thoughts?


	24. Of Rumours and Revealed Truths

**Disclaimer**: I own lots and lots of books (the paper copies, not the rights).

**AN**: Thanks you for reading thus far!

* * *

**Chapter 24: Of Rumours and Revealed Truths**

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a dark figure raise its arm, the initial syllables of a curse breaking the silence. Without so much as a second thought, Harry darted in front of the black snake lying docile in the middle of the corridor.

"Don't hurt her! She didn't do anything!"

The dark figure, none other than Severus Snape, scowled. "Out of the way, Potter!"

Harry scowled back and snatched up the black snake protectively in his arms, feeling an odd warmth simmer in his chest when it relaxed into his hold. "She didn't hurt anyone."

The dark haired professor gritted his teeth audibly, before snarling quietly as he cancelled the curses on Draco's legs and wand, and then snapping, looking pointedly at the boy's burnt hand, "To the infirmary."

Nodding shakily, Draco stumbled off as quick as his wearied legs could carry him, as the professor's gaze wandered toward Harry.

"Follow me, Potter."

The professor's cold voice left no room for argument, so Harry acquiesced and nudged the black mamba, urging it to curl about his shoulders, as he followed the professor, and ignored the piercing stares being directed his way by the small number of gaping spectators that had accumulated.

Blindly trotting after the flurry billowing robes, Harry was content to keep his eyes on his new friend, listening to it ramble happily with a small smile,

_:I like it here. So nice…soft. It smells strange...but a nice strange... I like this smell. It's cold though. Why's it so cold? I like you - can I stay? I'd like to stay. I don't want to go back. Can I bite that man? He's annoying.:_

Harry bit back a laugh. _:I'm sure you can stay, if you promise not to bite anyone – most people are quite terrified of your kind,: _he replied quietly, smirking slightly as he saw the greasy-haired professor stiffen slightly at the hissing quality his voice had taken on.

_:Oh…I can't bite anyone?:_ The poor thing sounded disappointed.

_:Well, maybe some people…but not unless I say so.:_

_:Alright!:_

Harry nearly collided with Professor Snape's back when he halted at a dead end, in front of a large, and rather hideous, stone gargoyle.

"Lemon Drops." The word was pronounced distastefully, as the gargoyle shifted out of the way, replaced with a slender spiralling staircase.

"Ah, Severus! Harry! What a lovely surprise!" the Headmaster happily exclaimed as they emerged from the staircase into his office.

Harry cast his eyes about the office, blinking as he observed the bright, cheery clutter of it – odd trinkets, hundreds of tomes, old and new, strange magical contraptions, some floating, flying, whirling, spinning, or glowing - the office was just as eccentric as the man's wardrobe. Really, Harry didn't expect anything different from the Headmaster, but the sight managed to be amusingly eye-catching nonetheless.

"Oh, and what's this?"

Harry followed the Headmaster's eyes to the greyish black snake wrapped around his shoulder.

"Headmaster," Professor Snape interjected, "I caught Potter cursing Draco Malfoy in the corridors."

Professor Dumbledore's concerned blue eyes met Harry's green. "Is this true, Harry?"

"We were in a duel, Professor. Malfoy cast just as many curses as I did."

"And duelling is forbidden in the corridors," Professor Snape hissed.

The Headmaster looked between them curiously, eyes lingering on the serpent about Harry's neck. "Surely, Severus, if that is merely the case, then there would be no need to come to me – I would think you would be happy to assign Harry detention and take an appropriate number of points on your own."

Harry suppressed a groan.

"Under normal circumstances, Headmaster, I would indeed – but once again, Potter has managed to make a spectacle of himself –"

"A bloody good spectacle," Harry muttered.

"- as he displayed some…unusual abilities in the course of his duel."

The elderly professor's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Oh?"

"He is a Parselmouth, Headmaster!" Snape ground out impatiently.

The Headmaster's eyes widened with understanding, a grim light flickering in them as they came once again to rest on the obsidian serpent.

Meanwhile, Harry could not help but sneer frustratedly. "Oh please. So I can speak to snakes!"

Professor Snape sneered back. "Leave it to you, Potter, to be hopelessly oblivious and arrogant about it."

"Harry," the Headmaster interjected softly, eyes still keenly trained on him, "Surely you know that –"

"I know," Harry interrupted stiffly, "That it has a bad stigma. I know that it's supposed to be passed down one specific family in Britain, and that everyone who had the ability was a dark wizard or witch. And that Salazar Slytherin was one of these dark wizards – the dark wizard that supposedly built a Chamber of Secrets, which has supposedly been opened. But that's got nothing to do with me."

The Headmaster sat back in his chair, hands folded politely on his lap, a strange, calculating glimmer entering his eyes. "And why's that, Harry?"

"Do you really think that there's only one family, in one tiny country, in the whole entire world that can speak to snakes?" Harry asked incredulously. "I happen to know that my mum's family is from France – maybe they've got Parselmouths too. Maybe it's a recessive gene; maybe it's a random mutation – it had to come from somewhere, right? The point is, I'm not evil or anything, and I've nothing to do with Salazar Slytherin."

The Headmaster sighed, closing his eyes and nodded. "Very well, Harry, I believe you."

"Headmaster –" Snape made to protest, but the elderly man held up his hand.

"He tells the truth, Severus. Harry had no motive to cause the incident yesterday; several of his friends and acquaintances are muggleborn students; his own mother was one, as you well know."

The dark haired professor winced slightly, drawing a curious stare from Harry.

"Moreover, he had no opportunity to commit the crime – we discussed this last night. We have no more reason now to suspect him now than we did twenty hours ago."

Professor Snape gritted his teeth quite audibly. "And the creature around his neck? He refuses to allow me to get rid of it." He glared at the snake, which glared right back at him.

Professor Dumbledore looked at Harry questioningly.

"It's not her fault that Draco summoned her," Harry objected. "And she likes me. She wants to stay with me."

"Was…she?" Harry nodded, and Professor Dumbledore continued, "Was she a kneazle or a toad, Harry, that would not be a problem. However, she appears to be a rare magical species of Black Mamba…very venomous if I recall correctly."

"She wouldn't bite anyone without my permission, Professor," Harry argued.

"Perhaps that is what the Headmaster's worried about," Professor Snape murmured.

Harry glared at him.

"Now, now," Professor Dumbledore said.

Harry turned back to face him with a carefully sculpted look of desperation on his face. "Please, sir – she won't cause any trouble. I'll keep her in my room at all times, and she'll sleep for most of the day anyway. She likes me – and I like her too...we're already friends! I don't have familiar, Professor – please, can I keep her? I _promise _she won't hurt anyone." Now, Harry had never really _begged _for anything before, but he thought he was doing a rather good job.

Professor Dumbledore was silent in thought for only a moment. "You'll allow me to put a spell on her? One to dull her fangs."

"Headmaster!" Professor Snape exclaimed, outraged.

"Severus," the Headmaster warned.

Harry supressed a victorious shout, and looked at the snake. _:He says you can stay if he can put a spell on your fangs that will dull them. It's temporary, I'm sure.:_

She shifted nervously, coiling tighter around his shoulder. _:I get to stay with you then?:_

Harry nodded.

_:It's alright then.:_ she replied brightly - well, as brightly as a snake could, anyway.

Harry looked up at the Headmaster, who was looking at him with undisguised fascination. "She said it's alright."

The Headmaster smiled amiably as he drew his wand, flicking it at the snake.

Harry blinked. "That's all?"

"That's all," the professor echoed, smiling. "Except…well, I'm sure Severus will be happy to assign you detention on his own."

Harry grimaced, whilst Professor Snape smirked triumphantly.

"Now, would any of you like a lemon drop?"

* * *

"So, let me get this straight, you _duelled _him?"

Harry groaned. "…yes."

"And then, while you were duelling, you spoke parseltongue – and now _everyone _knows?"

"…yeah."

"Damn! Of all the stupid, uncreative, thoughtless, tactless, idiotic, rash, lame –"

"Jean!" Harry pleaded.

"- things to do." He glowered at Harry. "Setting aside the fact that everyone now knows that you can speak to snakes – while the Chamber of Secrets was just opened, might I add – a duel? Dude! That is _so _lame. I mean, hello? Stereotypical much?"

Harry scowled back at him. "Says the walking stereotype."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh please – you practically ooze roguish stoner/conman vibes. I mean, really? The hair, the clothes, the accent, the bloody smell…"

"What do I smell like!"

"_You _smell like oil paint. When I first met you, though, you smelled like illegal herbs overlaid by expensive cologne – probably stolen."

Jean grumbled something indiscernible. "Whatever. What are you going to do about your secret getting out?"

Harry shrugged. "I'll just tell whoever asks that it's a genetic defect or something, and that they should go about their own damn business."

Jean quirked an eyebrow. "And you think that will work."

"Not really – but at least I can say that I tried to get them to believe I'm not evil."

"Yeah, right, tried _real _hard."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"And what about her?"

Harry looked down at the charcoal-coloured snake on his lap, which he had been stroking absentmindedly. "The Headmaster said I could keep her, so long as she stays in this room, preferably on my bed – I think he doesn't want her scaring the other students." He snorted.

"She got a name?"

"Yeah, it was a bit tricky, but I managed to translate the parseltongue into normal human speech – Laini. Isn't it pretty?"

Jean smirked. "Aw, first love."

That drew another scowl from Harry.

"How are you going to feed her? I mean, if she can't go out and hunt…"

Harry tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I was thinking of asking the Hogwarts elves to give me all the rats the catch around the castle…for now, anyway…"

"House elves?" Jean queried, "Like the one behind you?"

Harry let out a quiet yell, spinning around, Laini darting out of his arms and coiling on the bed in a defensive position.

"Dobby?" Harry gasped, eyes trained on the small creature standing at the edge of his bed.

The poor elf looked extremely distraught – eyes bulging, there were tear stains running down his face, and his long, worn fingers were sloppily bandaged. "Harry Potter, sir!" the elf whimpered, "Harry Potter came back to school! He promised, he promised he wouldn't! But he did!" The elf burst into tears, frame shaking wretchedly as he wept.

Harry made a mental note to cast a scourgify on the place where the elf stood later. "I broke no promises. I said I wouldn't fly to school – I didn't. I took a train. And I said I'd buy my books and study at home – which I did…for the month before school. I kept _all _my promises."

Dobby looked up at him, horrified. "Harry Potter tricked Dobby!"

"Well you didn't give me much of a choice, did you?"

"Harry Potter _had _to be warned – Dobby had no choice either!"

Harry huffed. "How did you even find out I was at school?"

Dobby tugged on his ears. "Dobby over heard his master's conversation with the mistress – Dobby heard your name. Dobby was so horrified, sir. Dobby was so horrified, that he burnt his master's dinner! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir…"

Harry grimaced. "I'm sorry Dobby, I really am, your master shouldn't treat you like –"

"Oh, Harry Potter sir!" the elf exclaimed rapturously. "So kind, so compassionate!"

Harry's grimace grew even sourer. "Yeah, right. But as I was saying – you were sort of asking for it, Dobby. This whole 'defy your master, keep Harry Potter away from school' plan? Not very well executed. I mean, did you event think it through? At all?"

Dobby scratched his head sheepishly.

"Right. I thought not. But you know what you need to fix it?"

"Oh, oh yes sir! Bestow Dobby with Harry Potter's great wisdom!"

"Well, then, try being honest. You going to tell me what's going on yet? Is it the Chamber of Secrets? Is your master – Lucius Malfoy – behind it?"

Dobby let out a troubled cry, and began to smack his head on the bedpost. "Bad – Dobby – Dobby – cannot – say – "

Harry reached out and grabbed him sturdily. "Stop it, Dobby, you're going to crack your skull open! And then I'll have house elf brains all over my bed! Do you have any idea how disgusting that would be?"

"Oh, Dobby's so sorry, sir! Dobby would clean it up, right away! He promises!"

"No, you wouldn't, cuz you'd be dead!"

The poor elf began to hyperventilate, sobbing in terror. "Oh! Oh, Dobby's so, s-so sorry! Dobby's s-such a terrible, t-terrible elf! Dobby's so sorry!"

"Don't be sorry," Harry snapped. "Just…just tell me why it's so important that I leave Hogwarts."

"Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!" Dobby whimpered, tears calming, though still running down his face, much to Harry's horror. "If he knew what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We house-elves were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir," he admitted, drying his face on the dirty pillowcase he wore. "But mostly, sir, life has improved for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, sir. And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more."

Harry swallowed nervously, biting his lip. "I'm sorry, Dobby, but I'm not a hero."

"So humble! Oh, of course Harry Potter is –"

"No, Dobby," Harry interjected. "I was only a baby – I didn't do anything. The only ones responsible for what happened that night are, well... the Fates. And they're cruel bitches that take just as much as they give. There are no such things as heroes, Dobby – and if you want things to be different, then you've got to do something." He tightened his grip on the elf's shoulder. "If you don't want history to repeat itself, Dobby, don't let it. Because running away and asking me to follow you won't help anyone."

Dobby's lower lip trembled, as he struggled to form words.

"You should go," Harry said suddenly, "Before Mr. Malfoy realizes you're gone."

The poor elf managed a quick nod, before he snapped his fingers, disappearing.

"Oh my god."

"I know," Harry deadpanned.

"The damn elf is turning you into a motivational speaker."

Harry started. "Wait, what? No!"

Jean snorted. "Ever thought of taking your own advice, kid?"

Harry scowled, picking up a disgruntled looking Laina, beginning to stroke her again. "What are you going on about?"

Jean rolled his eyes. "Come on, brat – it's not as though you're the most committed person in the world."

"I've got nothing to be committed to!" Harry defended himself.

"Oh come on, there must be something you want from life."

"I…" He grimaced. "Well, I suppose I do want to kill Voldemort one day."

"Yeah, not really great grounds for basing your future hopes and dreams on – besides, it's going to be kind of hard to kill him while he's Casper the Unfriendly Ghost, don't you think?"

"Casper had a nose," Harry muttered dejectedly.

"Whatever. Point is, that's not something to live for, kid. I'm just saying, you need more focus in your life. You know, that might be why you get into so much trouble all the time - ever thought about trying out for the quidditch team? Sports are supposed to keep kids out of trouble..."

"I've got plenty to live for," Harry argued, "I've got friends, I'm doing well at school, and I'm still working on a revenge scheme against 'The-Bastard-Who-Just-Won't Die.'"

"If you say so," Jean muttered.

"I do. Anyway, did you hear what Dobby said?"

"Which part?"

Harry sighed. "That Chamber of Secrets – history repeating itself. It's happened before!"

Understanding dawned on Jean's face. "Maybe some of the professors know something that they're not talking about…"

"No," Harry interrupted, "That would bring up too many questions for me to answer – I'll have to think of something else. But it's still a lead."

Just then, he jumped as he heard the dorm door slammed open.

"Damn."

"Time to face the music," Jean sang under his breath, evoking a glare.

"Harry!" It was Terry's voice, sounding rather frazzled. "We know you're in here!"

Sighing, Harry tore the curtains to the side, causing the five other boys to jump.

"Harry!" Terry exclaimed. "You'd never believe what we've been hearing!"

"I dunno, I'd believe a lot of things," Harry muttered.

"Hmm…yes," Anthony said cautiously, sitting down on his bed, two over from Harry's, "Something about you being _the _Heir of Slytherin. The whole story was sort of iffy – but somebody said something about seeing you speak to a snake."

"_Hiss _to a snake," Stephen put in.

Harry's lips twitched. "Oh, come on, you don't actually believe that, do you?"

"Uh, yeah, we do," Michael said, pointing behind Harry, "The proof's right behind you."

Harry spun around, finding Laini peeking out of the curtains. He pursed his lips. "Bloody hell. One thing after another..."

"Merlin's beard, it's a real snake, a real live snake in my room..." Terry whimpered, quite pale.

"Is it venomous?" Michael asked.

"Yes -"

Terry let out a terrified squeak, and Kevin went white.

"A black mamba?" he whispered, "What the hell, Harry? We're miles away from any hospital! We've got no anti-venoms, only one medical expert in the school…"

"But the Headmaster dulled her fangs," Harry interjected, "She can't bite anyone."

Anthony cleared his throat loudly, causing all eyes to fall on him. "Back to the matter at hand?"

Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. "There's not much to say – I can speak to snakes. But I'm _not _the heir of Slytherin."

"Yeah, but how do _we_ know that?" Stephen asked pointedly.

Harry scowled. "Oh, come on, you guys! You know me – sort of…but well enough to know I wouldn't do this! If I was a girl, you know, I'd be rather offended right about now. Can't you trust me just a little?"

"That's why our wands aren't out right now," Anthony pointed out.

Harry sighed. "Well, I haven't tried to kill Kevin yet. Right Kevin?"

The blonde boy, seeming to have gotten over the presence of the snake, frowned and shrugged. "Not directly – unless you count the whole egging thing last year. Whatever. I'm tired. 'night." He disappeared behind the curtains of his bed.

"See?" Harry said, "Hermione Granger's one of my best friends; my mum was muggleborn – I'm not some muggle hating, blood-supremacist psycho! So untwist your panties, and look at the facts."

"Why can you speak parseltongue then?" Michael asked confusedly.

"I dunno – genetic defect? Salazar Slytherin can't have been the only person who could speak to snakes."

Anthony nodded slowly. "That's reasonable. Just because we haven't heard of more parselmouths, doesn't mean there aren't any."

"Exactly."

"But why didn't you tell us?" Terry piped up, looking quite depressed.

"Er…it never really came up, you know…" Harry mused sheepishly.

"That's a lame excuse," Michael pointed out, heading toward the bathroom.

"Yeah, well tell me when you come up with a better one!" Harry called.

* * *

Harry wasn't quite sure about the dreaming stones – the last two nights, he had dreamt, for sure, but the whole thing was far too abstract for him to glean anything from it. It was like a badly organized montage; flashes of people, places, colours, sounds both familiar and unfamiliar…he was thankful when he woke up. Finding the time to be just before seven, he resolved to get out of bed and dress himself, hoping to avoid most of the other students at breakfast.

The Ravenclaw common room was empty, causing Harry to smile at the thought that he might have been the first one awake – which was why he was shocked to find two people waiting outside the portrait hole for him.

"Hermione? Neville?"

"Harry…" Hermione began tentatively, hands wringing behind her back. "We, uh…"

"We wanted to talk to you," Neville finished for her.

Harry sighed, stepping out of the portrait hole and following them down one of the still darkened corridors. "About the rumours."

Neville nodded. "Yeah, you wouldn't believe what we've been hearing!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "That I duelled with Draco Malfoy, spoke to a snake, and am the Heir of Slytherin, and am out to kill all the muggleborns in the school?"

"Well, yes," Hermione stuttered. "We were just, you know, wondering how much was true. Because I know you're not going around killing people…I hope so, anyway."

Harry shook his head. "No killing. I _did _duel with Draco," he admitted hesitantly.

"Harry!"

"I know, I know – just had to get it out of my system, you know?"

"No, I don't know," Hermione said flatly.

"Oh, well, you can't know everything I suppose. Anyway, long story short; yes, I can speak to snakes, but know, I'm not in any way related to Salazar Slytherin. I don't think so, anyway."

Both of them were gaping at him.

"B-but then how can you speak parseltongue!" Neville exclaimed.

Harry shrugged. "Mutation?"

"Mu – what?"

"It's a spontaneous change in a person's genetic code," Hermione answered absentmindedly.

Harry nodded. "Who knows? Maybe I have some great-great-great-whatever grandparent who was able to speak to snakes. Or maybe it can pop up randomly. It had to start somehow, right?"

Hermione was nodding slowly.

"But why didn't you tell us earlier?" Neville asked, frowning.

Harry sighed. "It was just never relevant, you know. It's not like it's that useful of a skill."

"There could be plenty of uses, Harry!" Hermione suddenly exclaimed, "Have you tried it with other reptiles? Like lizards, or…oh! What about dragons? And for password activated magical devices, only you could activate them! Or what about trying to cast magic while speaking parseltongue?"

"Er…I never really thought of that. But I really don't think the language works for anything but snakes."

"You never know."

"That's the spirit, Hermione!"

Neville cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "So…what are you going to do?"

"Do?" Harry echoed.

"Yeah, about the rumours – some people are pretty worked up about it," Neville said worriedly.

Hermione nodded. "Poor Colin Creevey was heartbroken."

Harry smirked. "Really? Should have liked to see that."

Hermione slapped him on the arm. "Harry! You've got to be nicer to him – do you have any idea how scared he was when you told him he was sucking out people's souls with his camera?"

"He was," Harry groused.

"Harry," Neville said cautiously, "I'm pretty sure cameras don't suck out souls."

Harry sniffed. "Yeah, that's what they want you to think."

Neville shifted uneasily.

"Anyway," Hermione interjected, "The Weasley twins seemed oddly amused, but quite a few of the other Gryffindors were furious."

Harry sighed exasperatedly. "Wonderful."

"How are your housemates taking it?" Neville asked.

"Hopefully, like the rational Ravenclaws they are," Harry said with a smile, "I think they're a bit uneasy about the whole thing, but my dormmates seem okay with it. Michael even held Laini last night."

"Laini?" Hermione and Neville asked simultaneously.

"Yeah, my new snake."

"You kept it?"

All three of them spun around, surprised to find that the question came from a pale-looking Draco Malfoy, standing a distance behind them.

Harry frowned. "Draco?"

"Harry," the blonde boy greeted awkwardly, some relief evident at the use of his given name. With only the slightest hesitation, he took a deep breath and faced Hermione determinedly. "I apologize, Granger, for what I said the other day."

Both Hermione and Neville gaped at him silently, whilst Harry simply grinned triumphantly.

"I…" Hermione finally recovered, "Thanks, Malfoy. I apologize for my behaviour as well."

She received a curt nod in turn.

"Splendid!" Harry said, "Now, I don't suppose you two could shake hands and say 'let's be friends'?"

He was sent two deadpan stares, and an incredulous, choking laugh from Neville.

"Right, I thought not. Now, anyone know what the time is?"

Hermione started and glanced down at her watch. "Quarter to eight."

"Damn it…" Harry groaned.

"What's wrong?" Neville asked.

"I wanted to eat breakfast and leave before everyone else…"

Neville cringed. "Heh…I think I understand why..."

"Harry," Hermione said concernedly, "It's not as though you can just hide out until the rumours go away."

"About those –" Draco started.

"Later," Harry said, glancing meaningfully at him. "We can talk about it later."

Draco nodded. "Well, if you don't want to go to the Great Hall, we could just eat in the kitchens."

Harry shook his head. "Hermione's right. Might as well face the music."

"What music?" Draco and Neville asked at the same time.

"Muggle colloquialism," Hermione put in, understanding dawning on their faces. She then stopped, the others as well, finding themselves in front of the door to the Great Hall, from which was emanating the smell of breakfast and the sound of animated chatter.

"Well," Harry said, pushing open the door, "Here goes nothing."

Immediately, all speech within the hall ceased, the chatter replaced by a stunned silence – which was slowly overwhelmed by the rustle of hundreds of cold whispers.

Harry grimaced under the strength of the fearful glances and angry glares being sent his way as he made his way to the table, which was already full, sitting down between Terry and Luna.

"There's lots of telepuckers buzzing around this morning," Luna commented conspiratorially.

"I think," Terry added, "What she means to say is that _everyone's _been talking about you."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm getting that."

He immediately went for the sausages, shovelling them onto his place and messily throwing some marmalade on it.

"Harry," Padma's soft voice suddenly spoke up from a few seats down, "We all know it wasn't you – Anthony explained everything to us earlier. I'm sure all the rumours will calm down soon."

Harry sighed, wincing slightly at a death glare he caught coming from the Gryffindor table. "Thanks, Padma."

"Yeah!" Lisa exclaimed, "Things'll get better, you'll see!"

But they didn't, not during breakfast, at least. The whispers and the stares continued throughout the whole meal – the particularly fearful, accusing, and angry glares making ingesting his meal rather unpleasant. As he ate in a rather frustrated, violent manner, Terry tried his best to distract him, but unfortunately, his poor attempts only managed to grate on Harry's nerves even more.

Eventually, in one of Harry's vehement attempts to stab his sausages, his plate broke clean in half, causing Terry to jump a few inches.

"Blimey, mate!"

"That's it," Harry ground out, standing up. But instead of marching out of the hall like Terry no doubt expected him to, he stepped onto his seat, and then onto the table, clearing his throat loudly, causing all the chatter in the hall to cease.

"Alright," he declared loudly, "I'm just going to clarify this now, so we can go back to hating and loving each other respectively as usual.

"I am NOT the Heir of Slytherin. I'm a halfblood Ravenclaw, for god's sake, you stupid, judgemental, ignorant little morons. The fact holds that I've got better things to do with my precious time than go on killing sprees – I don't even care about most of you enough to murder you! Why would I risk going to Azkaban for any of _you?_ Stop being so damn presumptuous and conceited! So there. Now we can all eat in peace."

With a huff, he stepped off the table, collapsing back onto his seat.

"Wow, Harry," Luna said, eyes wide and round, "You have a very commanding presence."

Harry's lips twitched. "I'd like to think so." He nodded, absorbing the dumb silence permeating through the Great Hall appreciatively.

* * *

So...yeah, thoughts?


	25. Of Presents and Pretences

**Disclaimer**: I don't even own a house.

**AN**: My most marvelous readers, thank you so much for reading (heh...that sounded so redundant). And thank you also, you who have reviewed! I really love reading them...there's just something that still remains frightfully novel about so many people reading what I write, and enjoying it.  
And I'm very pleased that Harry's little rant was enjoyed - there were so many times in canon that I wished Harry would just tell everyone to get over themselves ;)

* * *

**Chapter 25: Of Presents and Pretences**

Two weeks after Halloween, Hermione decided it was about time that the study group resumed. Upon their first meeting, several of the original members were still reluctant to associate with Harry, but after Hermione's long lecture on rational decision-making and considering _all _the evidence before making drastic judgements, those who were not yet convinced of Harry's innocence were cowed into submission by Hermione's expressive vocabulary. Suffice it to say, Harry had been impressed, and rather flattered.

Several new members had joined, including Luna Lovegood and Colin Creevey – Terry had also taken to showing up on a few occasions, as had Ron Weasley. Harry had even managed to drag Draco, along with Crabbe and Goyle, with him one week. Ginny Weasley had shown up once as well, encouraged by both Hermione and her brother; however, the shy girl hadn't exactly been in a pleasant mood – Harry could not help but wonder what had happened to the sweet disposition her demeanour had suggested at Flourish and Blotts.

As it had been in the previous year, most of the group's study time revolved around potions – the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were especially attentive during the one session that Draco took some time to (grudgingly) expound on the theory behind potion brewing. The long shadow of the snarky Potions Master and the theme of his complex subject seemed to be a misfortune that none of the students were able to escape.

"I just can't do it." Hannah buried her head in her pile of books and notes. "How am I supposed to remember all this? Especially with Professor Snape breathing down my neck the whole time!"

Beside her, Neville sighed and shook his head, also looking utterly defeated. "I've just given up. There's nothing to be done about it."

Hermione looked halfway between directing a scowl and sympathy at them.

Terry, across the table, grinned. "Maybe you could have Colin take pictures of your notes, and then sneak them to the tests with you!"

That earned him a smack on the head from Anthony.

Hermione ignored them, brows knitting together in concern. "Where is, Colin, anyway? I didn't see him on my way down."

"Maybe he's hiding in the stacks taking photos of Potter again," Ron piped up.

Hermione scowled at him, and was about to make a retort, before she heard the sound of Hannah's head hitting the desk again.

"What in Merlin's name is the Law of Transference of Reaction Energies anyway?"

Hermione blinked. "From chapter eight, remember? We covered it a few weeks ago."

"A few weeks ago? How am I supposed to remember that? That was so long ago...Harry?" Hannah said wretchedly, turning to face the raven-haired boy, who was completely absorbed in his reading, "What about those mn-mne…mnemo…"

"Mnemonic devices," Harry supplied.

"Yeah, those. Got any more of those?"

Harry looked up from his book on potion experimentation, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Anything could be used as a memory device, really…but…another common one is the method of loci."

Hannah frowned in confusion, but Hermione's eyes widened. "A memory palace!"

Harry nodded, then turned his attention to the others' confused glances. "Basically, you think of a place you know really, really well, like your bedroom, and you associate everything you want to remember with something in there. Like, you could attach different potions ingredients with distinct books on your shelf, or noticeable dresses in your closet, or pictures on your wall."

Hannah looked thoughtful. "That makes sense. But how –"

She was suddenly interrupted, as all the students spun about, startled by the noise of shouts and rushing footsteps coming from outside the library. Joining the flurry of curious students, the study group evacuated the library, finding themselves immediately swimming through the congested corridor, filled with chattering students, whose faces were pale and drawn with looks macabre fascination.

Anthony immediately pushed forward to address Penelope; the tall, blonde prefect stood off in a corner, murmuring quietly with some other upper year students. "Penelope! What's all this about?"

The girl started, glancing at Anthony, and then at the other study group members, eyes coming to rest worriedly on Harry, along with the glare of her boyfriend, Percy Weasley. "There's been another attack – someone else has been petrified."

They all gasped, eyes wide with concern.

"Who?" Hannah cried.

"Colin Creevey," Percy Weasley replied stiffly, eyes still pointedly fixed on Harry, who was desperately combatting the urge to curse the pompous prefect.

"Colin!" Hermione whispered, hands trembling slightly. "That's why he didn't show up today…"

"That's right," a loud voice suddenly called from across the corridor, belonging to one Zacharias Smith. "The annoying little muggleborn kid that used to follow _Potter _around all the time."

The chatter permeating through the corridor quieted as Harry's eyes narrowed dangerously, fixing themselves on the form of the second year Hufflepuff.

"Harry," Hermione warned concernedly, stepping in front of him.

But Harry brushed right past her, marching purposefully toward Zacharias. Meanwhile, everyone else in the corridor hushed, frozen until, from out of nowhere, really, Fred and George suddenly popped out of the crowd, urging them out of the way with the shouted warning they had taken to bellowing in Harry's presence,

"Make way for the Heir of Slytherin! Seriously evil wizard coming through!"

Instead of playing along with their theatricality as he usually did, though, Harry ignored them, eyes stiffly fixed on the blonde Hufflepuff in front of him. "Is there something you'd like to say, Smith?"

The boy sneered. "Yeah, there is. Don't think for one moment that I believe that tale you and your cronies have been spreading – everyone knows _you're_ the Heir of Slytherin, everyone knows you're behind all the murders! You may be a Ravenclaw, but everyone knows you're in with the Slytherins – you and Draco Malfoy; best mates, cousins, right?"

Harry scoffed. "I'm related to the _Blacks, _Smith, as are you, and probably half the people in this room as well."

"Doesn't change the fact that you belong with those snakes!"

"The entirety of Slytherin House is hardly responsible for whatever's going on," Harry spat, "If you think they are, you're just as much of a prejudiced bigot as whoever this hell the Heir of Slytherin is."

Smith's face was flaming scarlet with anger. "Which is you! Don't try to deny it - Creevey being petrified is proof of your guilt – everyone knows he annoyed you! It's only a matter of time before everyone who's ever upset you turns up petrified or dead by Slytherin's beast!"

Harry glowered at him darkly, biting out a derisive scoff. "Do you know what I do to people who upset me, Smith?"

"What?" he spat.

Harry smirked coldly. _:You asked for it.:_

Startled and terrified by the icy hiss Harry's voice had morphed into, Zacharias didn't even budge as Harry's well aimed _diffindo _sliced his left cheek open.

"_Entomorphis!"_

Hands and arms stretching out and thinning, two more sprouting from his abdomen, face painfully morphing into something unrecognizable – Zacharias Smith slowly transformed into a giant beetle-like creature, screaming as he did. Unable to move until the transformation was complete, he let out a wretched shriek as he ripped past the crowd, flying down one of the darkened, abandoned corridors.

Meanwhile, Harry sneered at his retreating form. "As if I need some beast to do my dirty work for me."

* * *

"…and once again, your attention-seeking, arrogant disregard for the rules has caused a spectacle at the expense of everyone else in the vicinity. _Three _first years fainted in terror of your antics, several students ended up jinxed, hexed, cursed, or trampled, and are now in the infirmary – the perpetrators are still unknown, and will most likely remain so due to the chaos you caused –"

"They can thank me later."

"- and right when the riot seemed to calm but a little, none other than _Peeves_ showed up, attracted by the debacle _you _initiated. The smell of dungbombs will no doubt linger in the library for weeks…"

Harry rolled his eyes, sitting back in the surprisingly comfy chair in the Potions Master's office, a decidedly dull, unimpressed look on his face. Honestly, the professor's furious rant might have intimidated a first year Hufflepuff, but really, who did he think he was kidding? Under the Potions Master's furiously cold black eyes, Harry's precious afternoon was slowly ticking away, much to his displeasure – and he was already in such a bad mood. And in years to come, when he looked back on that afternoon, what would he have to recall? Severus Snape's oily yet grating voice, detailing his most recent achievements in a most distasteful manner.

"…was it not for your clear penchant for sociopathic behavious, I might ask what in Merlin's name might inspire such a dunderheaded, witless act, but that would simply be begging the question, wouldn't it, Potter?"

Harry rolled his eyes, again, scoffing loudly. "Oh, come on. We _both _know that faced with the same scenario, you would have done the _exact same thing._"

The professor scowled viciously. "Once again, Potter, your ability to be utterly and inappropriately arrogant is astounding to even me."

"Just making a relevant point."

Professor Snape sneered. "And how, pray tell, is that relevant?"

"It's relevant because I was perfectly justified in hexing Smith, and anyone who isn't a pansy or Hermione would have done the same. We both know you can't convince me I'm wrong, because I'm not, so can you just give me detention and be done with it?"

The professor glared at him piercingly, tapping his long, sallow finger on the desk in thought.

"How 'bout detention with you?" Harry suggested, careful not to betray any emotion in his face that might set the professor off. "Bet the infirmary's busy this time of year, with quidditch and all. Lots of ingredients to chop, cauldrons to clean."

The professor's thin lip curled, eyes alight with suspicion. "I do wonder what heinous scheming would warrant such a suggestion."

Harry blinked innocently. "Scheming? Not at all. I was simply perusing a book on experiments in the variations of complex potions the other day, and was unsure about some of the techniques. No better teaching than the observation of a master, right?"

The professor narrowed his eyes, scanning Harry with piercing intensity; once he was satisfied, he sat back in his chair, face carefully blank, as he nodded curtly. "Be here at six o'clock sharp, tomorrow evening. You will have detention every second night until February."

Harry quickly fixed his grimace into a quick, grateful smile as he rose from his seat.

"The next time you cause an incident like this, I _will _have you expelled."

Harry smirked. "Oh, come on, the Headmaster wouldn't allow that – I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm a lost little boy who asserts his self worth through mischief."

The professor grimaced. "You may have everyone else fooled, Potter, but mind - the Headmaster is more intelligent than he appears. And don't _ever_ presume that you've fooled me."

"I'd never dream of it." He made to open the door.

"Oh, and Potter?"

Harry looked over his shoulder expectantly.

"One hundred points from Ravenclaw."

* * *

"So…I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm dangerously psychotic, but overall, I think it went quite well, save for my utterly wasted afternoon," Harry explained to Hermione, Neville, Terry and Anthony as they made their way toward the library. Since their previous study session had been rudely interrupted, Hermione had insisted that they resume the next morning – though a few were too busy or distracted (that is, had plans to sleep in), most of the group members agreed to show up.

"Well you are, mate," Terry corrected.

Hermione immediately jumped to Harry's defence. "No, he isn't! He's just misunderstood…and…enjoys it…"

Harry simply looked between them bemusedly.

"Well," Neville concluded, "It's no wonder Professor Snape likes you so much."

The others choked out incredulous laughs.

Neville blushed. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

Terry grinned, patting him on the shoulder.

Harry feigned tears. "My little boy is growing up."

"He _is _a teacher, you know," Hermione put in disapprovingly, "Show some respect!"

"She's right," Anthony agreed, "What if a Slytherin prefect had heard you?" He looked pointedly at Harry. "Despite your antics in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Ravenclaw's in the lead for points. We can't afford to lose any right now."

Harry chuckled sheepishly. "Yeah, about that…"

Anthony narrowed his eyes. "No points were taken for yesterday, right? You said you got detention…"

"Umm…well, Professor Snape took points too…a hundred of them," he finished quietly.

Anthony stiffened, stopping short in the library entrance and paling dramatically. "One…hundred…points…"

"But I'll win them all back, I promise!" Harry said, grinning.

Anthony said nothing, a grim, traumatized look clouding his face.

"Heh…" Harry grimaced, and then glanced about the library eagerly until he found the other study group members, and ran up to them. "Hey, guys, how are you this fine morning?"

Luna, who was sitting cross-legged and bare-footed in the middle of the table, looked at him blankly. "As wonderful as possible considering the distinct lack of wrackspurts – they don't like the smell, you see."

Harry nodded sagely, sitting down at the table. "Can't really blame them."

"Harry," Ernie suddenly said with sincere concern tinting his voice, the tone drawing the other boy's attention, "I wanted to apologize, on behalf of Hufflepuff, for Zacharias's words, yesterday..."

"He's still in the infirmary," Hannah added.

Harry smiled slightly at both of them, winking at Hannah. "You sure know how to cheer me up."

Meanwhile, the other students sat down at the table; Hermione, as usually, sat at the head, and as soon as everyone was seated, she opened her mouth to speak.

"Since we were…interrupted yesterday, I thought that we might take some extra time to study this morning." She took a deep breath. "In light of the stress that recent events have inflicted, I thought it would be best if we took some time to study for our end of term potions test –"

She was interrupted by the sound of Harry humming indecisively.

"What is it now!" she snapped.

"Boooorrring," Harry sang.

"What should we talk about then?"

"Well, considering I was dosed with a potentially toxic level of 'Potions Master' last night, something other than potions."

"Well?" Hermione asked distastefully.

"Well...I think we should talk about Christmas."

Everyone's faces (except Hermione's) lit up.

"Christmas?" Ernie said excitedly.

Harry nodded. "It's in less than a month, after all. Speaking of which, is anyone staying behind at the castle?"

Terry grinned. "You know I am. The holidays are always more fun with you." The 'than with my parents' bit went unsaid.

"I'm going home," Ernie replied, "And so is Hannah."

"Gran wants me home too," Neville said.

"My brothers and Ginny and I will be staying," Ron piped up.

Harry grinned at him. "I suppose we'll have to have another snowball war then."

Anthony sighed. "I'll be at home."

"And I have to miss the snowball war as well," Michael grumbled.

"Daddy might get eaten by nargles if I don't trim the mistletoe for him," Luna said with some disappointment evident in her musical voice, "Though a snowball war sounds perfectly splendid."

"What about you, Hermione?" Neville asked.

Hermione, seemingly resigned to the dissolving of the study session into a discussion on the holidays, looked at him lethargically. "I'll probably stay with my parents for the holidays."

Harry made a dramatic show of feigning tears. "But Hermione – I'll miss you so much…"

She snorted.

Neville grinned slightly. "We can all still send letters, you know."

Suddenly, Hannah clapped her hands cheerily, a giddy look forming on her rosy face. "Oh! We should all send each other presents!"

"That's right," Terry chimed in, "Harry and I got each other presents last year – imagine how many presents we'd all have if we all shopped for each other!"

Anthony frowned slightly. "Wouldn't that be a bit…much?"

"Yeah," Harry groused, "It'd take forever to pick out presents for _all _of you. Why would I even want to…?"

"Well, how about this," Hermione suggested, "We all pick one person to buy a gift for."

Terry grinned, pulling out a notebook. "Yeah! We can write our names down on a piece of paper, and then mix up all the papers."

Hannah nodded excitedly. "And we'll keep it a secret until Christmas, so that everyone's surprised!"

The idea seemed to be received favourably, as everyone seated at the table jotted down their names on a folded piece of parchment, Hermione transfiguring a small sack out of her robe, and then holding it out for everyone to toss their names in.

"What if we pick our own name?" Neville suddenly asked, frowning as a grimacing Hermione handed the bag to him, having just read the name on the parchment she had picked.

Harry shrugged. "Then you get to buy yourself a present, I suppose."

"I'd pick myself some turnips," Luna commented softly as she also picked a name, smiling brightly when she read it.

The bag, having circumnavigated the far side the table, was passed to Terry next, who smirked upon reading his name. Anthony took the bag from him, and then handed it to Harry, who sighed.

"I suppose the last one's mine," he said, fishing the last piece of parchment out, and then transfigured the sack back – into a rather pretty black party dress.

Hermione scowled, transfiguring the dress into a far more modest robe. "Let's hope you didn't pick my name – knowing you, you'll probably buy something completely impractical."

Harry was hard pressed to supress an incredulous, yet worried laugh when he opened his parchment and read the flawless, neat, flowing longhand, _"Hermione Granger."_

* * *

_:…and then the water crystalizes, and too heavy to remain in the air, it falls to the ground. That's where the white stuff, snow comes from,: _Harry explained patiently to Laini, who was snuggling into his night shirt, basking in his body heat.

_:I like it when you tell me stories…: _she hissed contentedly.

Harry chuckled softly, careful not to disturb his familiar with the low vibrations in his chest. _:It's not a story – that's really where snow comes from…it's science; humans have been studying it for years…:_

_:Tell me another story,: _Laini insisted.

Harry rolled his eyes. _:Fine, fine….alright, well, once upon a time, there was…er…a ring, yeah, a ring. The dark lord Sauron made it in a big volcano, but then he got himself killed, and someone stole the ring…:_

"Harry…."

At the sound of Jean's whining voice, Harry glanced over at the portrait. "What?"

"I want to talk to you too," Jean said grumpily. "You only ever talk to _her _now."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Wait, you're jealous?"

"Course I am! Being a portrait, my self-worth is already at an all-time low – I don't need my heir ignoring me too!"

Harry sighed. "Why don't _you _just tell Laini a story, then?"

"I can't."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't speak parseltongue," Jean groused unhappily.

Harry frowned. "What? Why?"

"I dunno…I can still understand it, but I can't seem to actually speak it."

Harry blinked. "Oh." He glanced down at Laini, who seemed to have fallen into a soft slumber. "Well, I was meaning to ask you something anyway."

"What?"

Harry sighed. "What do you think I should get Hermione for Christmas?"

Jean sat back in his chair slowly, a musing expression veiling his tanned complexion. "The bookish, prissy muggleborn girl? Huh…well, in my experience, girls like jewelry."

Harry shook his head. "For Hermione, it has to be something useful."

Jean rolled his eyes. "Just get her a book or something."

"But she already has so many," Harry objected, gritting his teeth, "I want to get her something that no one else would think to – you know, something special."

Jean grimaced, pretending to gag.

"Oh, stuff it. She's one of my favourite friends, and besides myself and my teachers, she's the smartest person I know. I can't just get her anything."

"Well, then…why don't you make her something? You know, something to show her how much you care…which is obviously a great deal," Jean pointed out matter-of-factly.

Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah…that's a good idea…" He frowned. "I think."

"It is. She'll love whatever you come up with, I'm sure."

Harry leered at him suspiciously. "You sure you're not just saying that."

Jean chuckled. "Don't you have a detention to get to?"

Harry frowned, glancing at his watch, and immediately darting to his feet. "Shit, I'm gonna be late!"

With invigorated wakefulness, he flew out of the boys' dorm and through the common room, ignoring all else as he practically tumbled down the stairs from Ravenclaw Tower. The halls and staircases quiet with the evening calm, only sound present was the frantic pattering of his footsteps echoes as his unrelenting pace brought him closer and closer to the dungeons – and every time his body urged him to slow down, all he had to do was remind himself that he did _not _want to end up as a potion ingredient.

Professor Snape observed with a condescendingly raised eyebrow when Harry burst into his office wheezing and puffing, glancing up at the clock in the corner.

"It's a pity you weren't late, Potter – I've been meaning to brew a potion that requires the kidneys of an arrogant halfwit and the pituitary gland of a self-important imbecile. I believe I could have harvested both from your cold corpse quite nicely."

Harry chuckled uneasily. "I'm guessing you had a back up plan?"

The professor looked at him down his long nose, sneering slightly. "Indeed." He gestured to a small work table on the far side of the room, upon which lay a lamp, several knives, a few bunches of herbs, and some neatly labelled jars. "You will start by shredding Valerian roots – we will be replenishing my veritaserum stores tonight."

Harry supressed a victorious grin in favour of walking over to his little work table quietly, eyes trained intently on the Potions Master in an attempt to burn his every procedure into his mind.

* * *

*Sigh* almost at Christmas holidays - for real, too!


	26. Of Christmas and Confusion

**Disclaimer:** redundancy...I mean, my name really isn J. K. Rowling...in fact, the 'i' and the 'l' and the 'n' are the only letters that are in my name.  
Also, little _Paradise Lost _quote by John Milton near the end, courtesy of Jean.

**AN:** Thank you for reading and reviewing!

* * *

**Chapter 26: Of Christmas and Confusion**

The hollow echoing of Harry's footsteps was the only sound permeating through the empty Hogwarts corridors, save for the dripping of the thick condensation from the marble statues and frosty glass windows lining either side of his path.

As Christmas break had just started, and the majority of the student population had vacated the premises, Harry was free to pursue his plans for Hermione's Christmas gift; she had also left a few days prior, with the only thing on her mind being their plans for after the holidays.

"Are there any muggle things we'll need for our experiments?" Hermione had asked right before she left.

"Batteries," Harry had concluded immediately, "Every shape, size, and voltage you can find – just lots and lots of batteries. Oh, and a few voltmeters and ohmmeters too, if you can."

Now, after extensive research in the library, Harry had concocted a plan that would both allow him to discretely glean the information he needed to construct Hermione's Christmas present, and also win back the house points he had caused Ravenclaw to lose – and reaching up to knock on his Head of House's office door, he mentally prepared himself to execute the first stage.

"Come in!" the professor's squeaky voice exclaimed from within.

Harry pushed open the door, stepping into the spacious office, which was nearly filled to the brim with books and parchment.

"Oh, Mr. Potter!" Professor Flitwick said happily, sending a cheerful smile his way.

"Hello professor," Harry began politely – of all the professors at Hogwarts, his Head of House was the one he respected most; he was brilliant, kind, accepting, enthusiastic, creative, and on top of all that, he was a badass duelling champion. "I hope you're not too busy."

"Oh, not at all, Mr. Potter! As always, your presence is a welcome distraction."

Harry grinned, taking a seat in front of the desk.

"Now, what is on your mind, Mr. Potter?"

"Well, you see, professor, some recent extra-curricular research has peaked my interest in a certain subject, and I was hoping to inquire into the possibility of doing an extra credit project."

Professor Flitwick frowned ever so slightly "You are already at the top of your class, Mr. Potter – near perfect marks – you are hardly in need of any extra credit."

Harry shifted in his seat. "Actually, I was hoping that instead of the marks for my project going toward my grade, you could convert them to house points."

The professor blinked, and then chuckled softly. "Still sore about Professor Snape's punishment?"

"Fifty detentions _and _one hundred points! It wasn't fair," Harry muttered.

Professor Flitwick's chuckles grew louder, as he shook his head. "Had I been the one to catch you, I would have done the same. _Entomorphis _was once considered a curse, Mr. Potter – it has very specific origins in the dark arts and external human transfiguration…it's been considered one of the harsher legal hexes. Though it does not cause any permanent harm, save for perhaps embarrassment, it's not a pleasant spell to be hit with."

Harry only shrugged.

"Well, I would be pleased to grant an appropriate amount of points for your work – have you begun your project yet?"

"Like I said, only some preliminary research. I was actually hoping for some guidance…"

"Oh, really?" the professor asked, grinning.

"Yes – you see, I've been researching the creation of portkeys."

"Oh, my! What a fascinating study! May I ask what sparked your interest?"

"Well, I purchased a portkey from the Ministry last year, so that I could go back and forth between my…house and Diagon Alley. I was fascinated with how it worked, so I did some experiments, and then some research at the library, on the creation and maintaining of a portkey. I know that the basis for the manufacturing of a portkey is the _portus _charm, but I was wondering about the details – specifically, how is the portkey tied to its destination?"

Professor Flitwick looked positively gleeful. "So you picked up on that? Brilliant! Well, Mr. Potter, I would like to start by pointing out that there are several methods of tying a destination to a portkey. The most common is to use an arithmantic matrix to record coordinates. However, on occasion, simple magical objects like runestones are used as anchors for each other; in the same way, human magical signatures are sometimes used to anchor the portkey."

"Runestones…" Harry mused, "I think I read something about that method…"

"Yes, it's rather rare, because of the theory behind the use of runestones – you see, to be able to transport a witch or wizard, they need to be specially engraved, making their creation very difficult and their use very specific. The Ministry very rarely authorizes such privately made portkeys."

Harry frowned. "So it's illegal."

"I suppose one could put it that way, Mr. Potter. The Ministry of Magic does not consider any portkeys that are not made or authorized by them to be legal."

Harry tapped his fingers on the desk, enthralled in careful calculation. "Is it…the actual spell work, or the unregistered use that's illegal?"

"The charm work is by no means illegal," Professor Flitwick said, laughing slightly "It's simply uncontrolled use that the Ministry is wary of."

"Then…" Harry smiled. "You wouldn't mind giving be a quick demonstration of the _portus _charm, would you? You know, just to give me a kick start for my project."

Professor Flitwick's face lit up merrily. "Oh, of course, Mr. Potter! It would be my pleasure!"

* * *

Harry was still, sitting at the Ravenclaw Table beside Terry, who was scarfing down some pudding. Aside from them, the five Weasleys, and then Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Draco (he and his mother had chosen to spend the holidays at the school, interestingly enough…) were the only students left in the school, save for the two petrified students in the infirmary. Justin Finch-Fletchley had been petrified only a few days before the holidays – naturally, the collective blame was on Harry, though most of the Hufflepuffs were wary of expressing their opinions in light of what had happened to Zacharias Smith; which, indeed, had fueled the rumour that the latest petrification was revenge on Hufflepuff House for Smith's words. Fortunately for Harry, none of the study group members believed that he was behind the whole debacle, which he was thankful for – though he didn't mind everyone thinking he was evil, he did prefer to keep his friends.

"So, anyway, I need to think of something real clever to send to Anthony – something that'll scare him right out of his skin," Terry was saying rapidly, through a mouthful of pudding.

Harry grimaced. "You do know the name you picked is supposed to stay secret, right?"

Terry rolled his eyes. "Anthony isn't even here! Honestly….say, what's your name?"

"Harry Potter."

Terry scowled. "No, the one you picked out of the sack."

"Not telling. 'S against the rules."

"Of all the times to adhere to the rules…"

"Oi, Harry!"

"Boot!"

"Come join us outside!"

The two Ravenclaws glanced over to the twins, who had migrated over to the doors of the Great Hall.

Terry excitedly sprang to his feet. "Are we having a snowball war!"

"Yeah!" the response came from Ron. "Even Ginny's joinin' in!"

"Ooh!" Terry said, rubbing his hands together. "You've got to come, Harry!"

Harry nodded. "Of course." He looked over his shoulder, at the Slytherin table. "Hey, Draco, Crabbe, Goyle! Want to join us?"

The three Slytherins looked at each other intently, seemingly engaged in a silent conversation, before they all nodded slowly.

"Aw…why'd you have to invite the Slytherins along?" Ron complained as the trio began to make their way towards them.

Harry smirked. "A perfect opportunity to promote inter-house unity – plus, Weasley, if you've improved any from last year, then you'll have a chance to utterly destroy them."

Once everyone had fetched their snow gear, they made their way outside to the courtyard, which was covered in billows of wind swept snow. Immediately, the twins hopped up onto one of the snow-blanketed benches, announcing in their grandest voices:

"Hear ye, hear ye,"

"This here marks the second annual,"

"Hogwarts Battle of the Snowballs!"

"We shall fight for the prestigious title of – "

"His Majesty, the Lord of Snowballiness!"

"As there are nine competitors,"

"We will split into three teams – "

"And of the winning team, all three members"

"Will be crowned!"

"I call Potter!" Draco immediately spoke up.

"Too bad, Malfoy Junior," Fred said, smirking.

"We've got dibs."

"Wait," Terry said, "What if I want him on my team?"

George sighed. "Like we said,"

"Too bad."

"But that's not fair!" Ron exclaimed. "You three are the best players!"

George leered at his brother mockingly. "You scared,"

"Little bro?"

Ron reddened. "Of course not! You go ahead, make your team – I'll conquer all of you!"

Terry buried his face in his hand, whilst Harry smirked beside him, eyes glinting rather evilly, along with the twin redheads'.

* * *

Harry, Fred, and George devastated the competition – completely, utterly, and mercilessly. Terry ended up with a sprained ankle, Ron's nose was broken (courtesy of an 'ice ball'), Draco's hair was irrevocably mussed up, Crabbe and Goyle were unconscious, and a permanent shiver seemed to be racking Ginny's small frame. 'Team Slytherin,' as they had dubbed themselves, much to the chagrin of the actual Slytherins present, were once again crowned Lord Snowballinesses, and for the next few days, strutted about the castle with their reddened noses stuck in the air, acting like pompous gits with nothing better to do than boast and lord their victory over the others.

After that was washed out of his system, Harry obsessively set to work on Hermione's Christmas present. After doing some idle experiments with the _portus _charm, and carefully recording the results, he started the tedious, intricate process of carving runestones. Under normal circumstances, such a task would require spell work far out of even his reach – but with some of the special skills and personal advantages he possessed, it was a viable option. He already knew Hermione's first, middle, and last name, her birthplace, and her birthdate – and with those figures, he was able to construct a 3 by 3 arithmantic matrix, and find the determinant, and the corresponding runes. He also had access to Hermione's DNA, which he infused the stone with. A potion was required for this; it took an entire week to brew, and by the time that was finished and he had carved the runes with the blessed ritual knife he owned (he actually thanked the Fates that he had come across it all those months ago) – it was Christmas Eve.

Snow was falling on Christmas Eve afternoon, slowly wafting through the atmosphere, thick with frost. However, the imminent cold, much to Harry's relief, could not penetrate the stone walls of the castle, or dampen the fire that Harry sat beside, writing Christmas letters. He wrote one to all the study group members, out of the goodness of his heart, including Hermione's – to which was attached her present. He wrote letters as well to Terry, Draco, and the Weasleys, to which were also attached small presents. His next letter was for Mr. Borgin – he figured, just for the hell of it, that it would be quite fascinating to see if a response was ever sent – and the one after that was to Kreacher, to read to Walburga's portrait.

By the time he had finished writing all the letters, his hand hurt, and the walk to the owlery was a well appreciated reprieve; and by the time he had addressed and sent all the envelopes, it was dinner time, which passed quickly into the tranquility of evening, and then bedtime. Late into the night, much to Harry's displeasure, Terry wouldn't stop talking and fidgeting, every so often having the nerve to hum a Christmas carol. It was only after midnight that he, and subsequently Harry, fell to sleep.

Dawn was not yet peaking over the eastern horizon when the wind was knocked out of Harry, courtesy of Terry's knees.

"It's CHRISTMAS!"

"You don't say," Harry coughed out, elbowing Terry off. "What _time _is it?"

"Uh…I dunno…"

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes with a scowl. "Figures."

"Oh, come on, don't be like that – it's Christmas, you know."

"Yes, I do know – that everyone seems to lose their sense of decency on this bloody holiday."

"You're such a bastard on Christmas."

"And you're such a brat on Christmas."

Terry cuffed him over the head.

"What was that for?"

Terry smirked. "Get over yourself and come open your presents."

Harry gaped at him for a moment, before shaking his head, chuckling. "_Fine. _Let's go open some presents."

Pushing Terry off of the bed, Harry following toward the door, ducking his head prominently as they passed by the mirror.

"What are you doing?" Terry inquired dubiously.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Nothing."

"You were looking away from the mirror," Terry pointed out, jogging down the stairs into the common room.

"Er, yeah – bad luck, it is."

Terry choked slightly. "Bad luck? You're not superstitious!"

"I am sometimes."

"Right," Terry said, sitting down at the Christmas tree, which was sparkling with the light of magical candles, reflecting off the sprinkling charmed snow, and then frowning. "Is that…cabbage?"

Harry blinked, picking up a box that appeared to be wrapped in crisp green cabbage, his name written in red sparkles on top. "Well, I suppose I know who picked my name." Carefully, he tore the cabbage off, finding a glittery, garishly shaped pair of enormous spectacles on top.

"What on earth are those things?" Terry asked, ripping open one of his packages and pulling out a new robe from his parents.

"I…don't know…" Harry mused, turning over the tag on it, _"_Spectrospecs..._You See best when your eyes are clear…_"

"Well that's sort of…redundant…" Terry frowned. "What else is in the box?"

Reaching inside, Harry pulled a small book out. "_The Tales of Beedle the Bard?"_

At that, Terry burst out laughing.

"What?"

"That's a children's, book, Harry! A book of fairy tales! My mum used to read one for me every night before I went to bed when I was little."

Harry's eyebrows rose, as he opened the book up to its table of contents.

"I wonder why Luna would send you something like that?" Terry inquired through his giggles.

"I never read fairy tales when I was small," Harry mused quietly, tracing his finger down the list of stories.

Terry sobered slightly, frowning. "Why?"

"Dudley had plenty of books – but I wasn't allowed to touch them. I wasn't allowed to touch anything of his. Apparently, freakishness is contagious…" Harry whispered absentmindedly as he flipped through the pages.

Terry was silent, staring down at the new book in his own hands. Finally, taking a deep breath, he reached into the pile, picking out another present and handing it to Harry with a grin. "This one's from me!"

Starting, Harry snapped _The Tales of Beedle the Bard _shut, taking the other package out of Terry's hand. Tearing the paper off, he found a small, golden rimmed mirror inside. "What's this?"

"It's called a Foe-Glass," Terry said, "You see the dark shapes in the background? They're supposed to be your enemies, whoever they are – the shapes will become clearer as your enemies approach you."

Harry grinned. "Brilliant!"

Terry smiled cheerfully, evidently pleased by the response. "I thought of getting you a sneakoscope, but it'd probably whistle all the time with you around."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Probably. I got something for you too, you know."

"Even though you didn't pick my name?" Terry said, eyes lighting up.

Harry shrugged. "You _are _spending the holidays with me."

Smiling goofily, Terry tore the packaging open, letting out a quiet "yes!" when he removed the contents. "A book on warding and curse-breaking! This is amazing!"

"You seemed pretty keen on it last year."

"Can't wait to read it! Now – you hungry? I'm hungry! Really hungry!"

Harry rolled his eyes.

In only a few minutes, both boys were dressed snugly, in preparation to race down the frigid corridors. Harry made it to the Great Hall only a few moments before Terry, but waited for his huffing, puffing fellow Ravenclaw before sitting down.

"Blimey, mate – where'd you learn to run so fast?"

Harry glanced over at him. "You don't want to know."

"Probably not."

Harry glanced around the Great Hall, finding most of the teachers at the head table, and the Weasleys waving them over to the Gryffindor table.

"Did you get some mail this morning?" Harry asked as he sat down at the table, eyes flickering to Ginny Weasley as she seemed to flinch away from his presence.

Both twins grinned. "Oh yes."

"We certainly did."

Ron frowned. "Why'd you get them more stuff from Zonko's anyway? – they've got tons already!"

"Well," Harry drawled, "First thing, it's from me _and _Terry, and second – it's for all of you to share. Third, well, the twins gave me an early Christmas present a few days back – a kit from Zonko's – I think they wanted me to set up a huge prank for this morning. But it slipped my mind completely."

Both twins groaned in disappointment.

Meanwhile, Harry glanced around the Great Hall. "I wonder where the Malfoys are?" he mused.

"Who cares," Ron said flippantly, slapping some pudding on his plate. "Probably doing whatever Death Eaters do on Christmas Day."

Harry scowled. "They're _not _Death Eaters."

"But his father –"

"Is his father," Harry interrupted. "Draco Malfoy isn't a Death Eater. I don't believe his mother ever was either."

Terry blinked. "How d'you know?"

"She doesn't seem like the type."

Terry snorted.

"Well," Ron said, mouth stuffed with pudding, "Doesn't change the fact that he's behind the whole Chamber of Secrets thing."

Fred cuffed him over the head.

"Ow! What was that for?"

Fred shook his head. "Stupid little brother."

"Everyone knows the Heir of Slytherin"

"Is none other than our very own"

"Harry James Potter," they finished together with a flourish.

Harry chuckled under his breath.

Ron shifted nervously. "It's not really you, right? Because Hermione said…and at study group…"

Harry smirked. "I dunno. What do you think, Ron?"

Ron gulped quite audibly. "But you cursed Smith for accusing you –"

"Actually, I didn't curse him – I hexed him. And it wasn't that bad…it only lasted for a couple of days. And I didn't curse him because he said I'm the Heir of Slytherin – I don't care about that. He accused me of trying to kill people just because they made me angry. Both Hermione and Neville liked Colin Creevey – I'd never do something like that to them. And I wouldn't kill a classmate."

"So…" Ron said slowly. "You're not the Heir of Slytherin?"

"No, moron. I may not be prefect material, but I'm not a cold-blooded murderer."

"And yet you take great joy in inflicting various curses and hexes on your fellow students without getting caught," Percy suddenly sniffed distastefully.

Harry frowned. "How's that any different than what everyone else always does? From what you do?"

Percy looked quite affronted. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"I saw you break up with Penelope before the holidays," Harry pointed out, "She was crying for days. You hurt her because of your own personal feelings." He shrugged. "Sometimes I curse people – but at least they deserve it."

Percy, red-faced and looking quite furious, rose from his seat with a huff, marching out of the Great Hall.

Harry popped a marmalade-covered sausage into his mouth. "Did I say something wrong?"

Terry buried his face in his hands.

* * *

The day passed slowly, monotonously – too much so, for Harry's taste. After their breakfast, the group of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws went outside – much to Harry and the twins' displeasure, the idea of another snowball war was shot down in favour of constructing various snow-creatures. It was only when the twins charmed them to move that things got interesting.

Lunch had been a cold affair, with all six students suffering from the havoc Fred and George's charmwork had wreaked, shivering as they slurped the soup that the Hogwarts elves had kindly cooked up for them.

The afternoon thereafter was quiet – Harry and Terry spent several hours in a fiercely competitive game of exploding snap; it was only at dinner that Harry first saw Draco. After a brief and slightly awkward exchanging of gifts, Harry resolved that his day was pretty much over, and made his way up to the dorms.

Still pointedly looking away from the mirror, Harry made his way behind the curtains of his bed, casting a _muffliato _and pulling Jean's portrait out from under his pillow.

"Merry Christmas brat!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Could you _try _to be nicer?"

"Nice? You're talking to _me _about being nice? You left me under a pillow all day! On Christmas!"

"Right. Sorry."

"That didn't sound very sincere," Jean said suspiciously.

"That's cuz it wasn't."

Jean rolled his eyes. "So, what'd you get?"

"Uh, well, I've still got that stuff from Zonko's from the Weasleys; I accidentally-on-purpose forgot to use them today – I'm totally using them on Dudley. I got a copy of _Moste Potente Potions _from Draco, and a Foe-Glass from Terry."

"Oh!" Jean exclaimed, "Those are useful."

Harry glanced over at the small mirror he had laid on his bed, watching the myriad of dark shapes shift in the background. Laini, who seemed to have just woken up, slithered over to the mirror and began to hiss at it.

"Except I've no idea who most of those shapes are."

"Once they get close enough, you will."

"True," Harry said, scooping Laini up in his arms, smiling as she hissed contentedly when he began to stroke her head.

"And what did you get from your Secret Santa?"

"My what?"

"The person who picked your name!"

"Oh, it was Luna. Well, she gave me…cabbage…"

"Cabbage?" Jean choked out.

"Yeah, cabbage. And she gave me this book – _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_."

"Ah," Jean said, "A book of fairy tales…"

"You know about it?"

"Yeah, it's been around a long time…more than five hundred years. But it's all British lore, so I don't know much about the actual stories inside. Beedle may have been a seer though."

"Huh….speaking of which, I really think Luna's some sort of seer…she gave me these." He put the spectrespecs on, adjusting them and then gasping.

Meanwhile, Jean seemed to be choking on something. "W-what the hell are those?"

"Spectrespecs…" Harry whispered. "I…I think they make auras…or maybe ambient magic… visible…"

Jean's eyes widened dramatically. "Seriously?"

"Yeah…your portrait…Laini…the ward I set up around the bed – they're all…like, different colours, and textures suddenly…it's like they're covered in a thin layer of steam or something…it's vibrating, and pulsing…"

Jean whistled. "That's something. Did she say what it's for?"

Harry shrugged. "That's what I didn't get…something about Seeing better with clear eyes…"

Jean's eyes narrowed. "You See best when your eyes are clear…"

"Yeah, that's what it said!"

"That's a metaphor, Harry."

"Oh? For what?"

Jean sighed. "For what I've been trying to tell you for months, moron. Even the loony Lovegood girl's noticing now. 'The eyes are the windows to the soul' – ever heard that one?"

"Yeah…" Harry said slowly.

"Yeah, well with clearer windows, you see better into the house, the soul."

"So…?"

Jean groaned. "Focus, Harry – focus and self-honesty. It's impossible to be a Seer when your soul is muffled – when you're fooling yourself, ignoring things you shouldn't be. That's why you're supposed to be meditating –"

"I don't like meditating! It's boring!"

"Yeah, well that's sort of the point, to force self-reflection via boredom…I think…"

"Doesn't matter," Harry argued, "Because I'm not fooling myself about anything –"

Jean barked out a scoffing laugh. "Yes, you are! Damn, do I have to spell it out, kid? You never confront anything important – you just get rid of it or your feelings about it! I meant what I said a few weeks back – you need something to live for; you need to be able to think about what you're doing, and understand why you're doing it. I overlook a lot, brat, but don't think I don't notice – trying to kill Voldemort, ignoring the Dursleys, lying to your friends. And any fear, guilt, anxiety, sadness, you just lock it all away - ignore, ignore, ignore. It'll all take its toll eventually…"

Harry gritted his teeth. "I'm not talking about this with you - you're not a bloody shrink!"

"But I'm your family," Jean snapped, "Your teacher - you're a Seer Harry, my heir, and I've got a responsibility to make sure you do a damn good job of it. Which you can't, right now."

Harry scowled. "I'm not all that inclined to believe you, you know – I'd say I've gotten pretty good at my seer stuff; you should see me at the appointments Fred and George set up! I barely get tired anymore! If I'm so self-deceiving, then how's that even possible?"

Jean scowled back at him. "The reason it's still possible for you to perform divination is that there's more than one way to clear the path to the soul – the same way you can perform magic; Will. You're impulsive, Harry – you don't think things through."

"I think things through!" Harry argued, outraged, slight concern niggling in the back of his mind at Jean's use of his name, "How do you think I ace all my tests? How do I get away with sneaking into the restricted section? How could I possibly make all the plans I have, if I don't think things through?"

"There's a difference between wisdom and intelligence! You're skilled, Harry, and impulsively curious – you do whatever you want, whenever you want; when you want to understand something, to try something new, you do it without a second thought. Sure, that's a form of self-honesty, and I know you believe it's the best way to accomplish anything. But it's also what will get you killed one day...among other things."

"Other things," Harry said dubiously.

"Yeah – have you ever considered that it's important _why _you do things? Harry, you only ever make judgements based on pragmatism and your own desires. Have you ever given any thought to the reasons? To morals, for example?"

"You're one to talk," Harry scoffed. "Morals, says the man who's wanted in several countries."

Jean scowled. "I've done a lot of things in my life, Harry, a lot of things I regret, even – but I know why I did them. Do you? Have you given any thought to where you're going? And more importantly – why you're going there?"

Harry was silent for a moment.

"I don't want to talk about this," he finally said, petulantly.

"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make heaven of hell and hell of heaven…" Jean muttered pointedly.

Harry frowned at him vaguely.

Shaking his head, Jean sighed. "Fine, fine…what are you going to do then?"

"I'm going to read my new book."

Jean nodded slowly. "Read aloud, will you? I want to hear."

Harry nodded back mutely, picking up the book and beginning to flip through the pages – before he stopped, turning back to the title page. Frowning, he traced his finger over a strange shape beside the title, a triangle inscribed in a circle, cut in half by a line. "What's this…?" he whispered, suddenly lifting up the book and showing it to Jean. "Does that look familiar to you?"

Jean froze for a moment, jade green eyes fixed on the curious shape, before he shook his head stiffly.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure – no idea what it means."

Harry nodded slowly, turning back to the text: "Once upon a time, there were three brothers…"

* * *

Review:

Definition #1: write a little blurb about what you thought.

Definition #2: re-view – read the chapter again. Your choice.


	27. Of Valentines and Volatile Experiments

**Disclaimer**: I own a word processor. And right now, a nice cup of tea

**AN**: 1. Thank you for reading, and thank you for the reviews - you know how much I appreciate them!  
2. Quick note: things concerning the chamber of secrets are going to be happening sooner than they did in the book...maybe by a month? Something like that...  
Anyway, that being said, this chapter mainly finishes the transition into the whole mess that's approaching...

* * *

**Chapter 27: Of Valentine's Day and Volatile Experiments**

"One, two, three –"

BANG!

Both Harry and Hermione were sent staggering backward as the battery exploded, sending flashes of indigo and violet sizzling through the thick air of the girls' bathroom.

Meanwhile, above, Myrtle was cackling gleefully, her shrill voice poking fun at the failed experiment.

"Failure number seven," Harry muttered, inching cautiously toward the debris.

Christmas holidays had ended over a month ago – the first thing Hermione had done upon arriving back at the castle was ask Harry about the curious necklace and cryptic note he had sent her over the holidays. Initially, she panicked when he told her he had constructed an unregistered portkey linked with one he had made for himself – using paired runestones that would tie them together over an indefinite distance. All either of them needed was to say the designated password – _Hermes – _and they would find each other side by side. Though, even after he explained how it was the only useful thing he could think of to get her, she remained uneasy about the whole thing, she appreciated the gesture – and Harry appreciated that she seemed to understand the thought behind it; which left them with a duffle bag full of batteries and voltmeters, a vague hypothesis, and a list of ideas for experiments.

By mid January, Hermione found a place where they could perform their experiments in solitude – a girls' bathroom, abandoned for the most part because it was haunted by a particularly pouty ghost named Moaning Myrtle.

"If the explosion kills you next time, Harry, you're welcome to share my toilet with me," she crooned, leering at him.

Harry sighed. "Thanks Myrtle."

In the meantime, Hermione had stood up, beginning to pace. "I don't understand! The result's the same every time! The material we make the wires out of, the number of series we construct, the voltage of the batteries – it doesn't even seem to matter!"

Harry nodded, a frown on his face. "I think…I think what we need to do is identify the residue," he pointed to the aurora-like wisps floating above the burn marks on the bathroom floor, "And then…subtler charm work, maybe?"

"But what would that even mean?"

"I dunno – I don't know enough about charm theory to just make a guess, either."

Hermione brushed her uniform off. "More research?"

"More research."

Muttering a few quick cleaning spells and thanking Myrtle profusely for her discretion (after some pleading on their part, the ghost had agreed to keep their presence in her bathroom a secret), the two of them, after taking down the meager secrecy ward they had constructed about the door, left the bathroom quietly. Dawn was barely was a barely shimmering scarlet lighting the corridors; it was a Sunday morning, Saint Valentine's day, and no one was yet awake. As quiet as the Hogwarts corridors were, however, the library was quieter – Madame Pince was the only other human being present, flitting amidst the stacks, shelving tomes.

"We should split up," Hermione immediately said, eyes flickering down the stacks, "I'm the faster reader, so I'll research specific charms – you can look up the charm theory."

Harry mock-saluted. "Yes ma'am."

She scowled playfully, marching into the imposing, sheer cliffs of books.

Harry, however, did not proceed into the spell-theory section – the temptation was too great to veer elsewhere. Another student had been petrified in January, and that was when everything had clicked, or sort of clicked, anyway – the water on the floor in October, Colin's camera in November, Nearly-Headless Nick in December, and the windows that the muggleborn Gryffindor girl had been found leaning against in January. All four cases involved some substance that filters a person's sight, either by refracting or reflecting; whatever was happening to the students to petrify them, it was entirely possible that it was directly related to what they saw – everyone attacked was looking into something that would have indirectly revealed the perpetrator. As obscure as the commonality was, could it really be just a coincident? Harry didn't think so - since learning about magic, it had become apparent to him that anything relating to it was never coincidental.

And then there was the fact that it was supposedly 'Slytherin's beast' that carried out the attacks – what sort of beast would Salazar Slytherin employ to carry out his ambitions? If the attacks were truly legitimate (and considering pureblood blood-supremacist Slytherin Lucius Malfoy most likely had something to do with them, he suspected they were), then the 'perpetrator' was most likely a long-lived snake of some sort…which quite possibly affected its victim's sight somehow; even if it was only an appearance so hideous it struck terror into its victim. It was a long shot, but he could not help but wonder whether or not it was possible to deduce _what _exactly was committing these crimes.

Harry knew next to nothing about cryptozoology, and he didn't really care about the subject. But there was something about this that was chewing, viciously gnawing at the back of his mind – whatever was attacking the students…sometimes he would hear its voice in the corridors and the stairwells. And sometimes, he thought, he heard its whispers in his sleep.

Haphazardly, he flipped through a fifth year Care of Magical Creatures text with a raised eyebrow, finding nothing useful. When he reached the end, he nudged it to the side, scanning the shelves for something to look through next – _Slippery Serpents and their Surroundings _caught his eye.

"Harry?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Harry resisted cringing when he saw Hermione's puzzled expression.

"What are you reading?"

Harry opened his mouth, several explanations vying for dominance on his tongue.

"Don't lie to me," Hermione suddenly said, "I know you're going to."

Harry blinked. "How?"

Hermione sat down. "It took me a while, but I finally figured it out – you're far calmer when you lie."

Harry sighed, sliding the book toward her. "Figures. I…I was researching Slytherin's beast. I…there were just so many clues that could be…needed to be put together…it was bothering me…"

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, "If you've got an idea of what could be doing this, then you have to talk to one of the teachers!"

"No!" he said immediately.

"Well then I will –"

As she made to rise from her seat, he grabbed her wrist. "No, Hermione – wait. You _can't _tell anyone."

"But why?"

"Hermione…I…I've got an idea of what it is, but if I tell a teacher – I'll have to explain too much."

She frowned, utterly confused. "Explain what!"

"Explain, you know… how I know..."

"Well, why can't you just say you can't explain it? But how do you even know? Oh…is it to do with…" she looked at him pointedly, "Well, you know…"

"Yeah, sort of," Harry said.

Hermione wrung her hands fretfully. "Look, I understand why you're reluctant…but people are getting hurt, Harry –"

"I don't see what that has to do with it..."

"It has everything to do with it - our friends classmates are in danger!"

"And that's not my fault," Harry muttered.

"I know that, Harry – but you care, don't you? About our classmates – who knows who could be next?"

"And it's not like I do, either."

"Harry, if you know something, then you have a responsibility to –"

"Responsibility?" Harry said incredulously.

An odd, upset frown was growing on Hermione's face. "Yes, Harry, something you seem to take pleasure in ignoring…"

"Wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

"I didn't mean...that's not the issue right now -"

Harry frowned. "If you brought it up, it's an issue."

Hermione huffed. "It simply means that I don't understand, Harry, why you can't seem to understand that right and responsibility go hand in hand; taking responsibility for your actions is important! And you don't – disrespecting teachers, ignoring rules, cursing students you don't like, and now this…I don't understand what you think gives you the right!"

"The right? No one needs the right to do anything, Hermione – they just do it. No one's entitled to anything, and no one's obligated to act in a certain way," Harry retorted firmly. "And they don't. Nobody needs a right – just a reason."

"But…I mean, even if it's bullies like Marcus Flint and troublemakers like Zacharias Smith – don't you feel…just a little bit guilty?"

Harry choked out a laugh. "Guilty? Why? They deserve it."

"So you say..."

"Yeah, which is why I don't feel bad about it. Why would I?"

"Well," she said uneasily, "For, you know, hurting people…"

Harry scowled, staring at her piercingly. "Did you know…did you know that people can be made to feel guilty for anything? For being alive? Guilt is the easiest way to manipulate, control, and hurt someone – and people who let that happen to themselves are stupid and weak. Did you know that?"

Hermione closed her eyes. "No…I suppose I didn't know that."

Harry shrugged. "Well. Then there you go."

Neither of them spoke, his emerald green eyes focused into her chocolate coloured ones, which drilled into his in tun.

Finally, Hermione broke the silence. "Everything aside, Harry - by looking into this and not asking for help...you could be putting yourself in undue danger."

"I'm fine, Hermione - it's not like there's some vast conspiracy going on...I don't think so, anyway."

She sighed. "Just...I won't tell anyone...so long as you just leave it, please..."

"Just let me finish what I've been looking up...it's nothing _dangerous, _I promise. Trust me?"

She took a deep breath. "I…I'll trust your judgement – turns out you're usually right anyway," she grumbled.

Harry smirked. "Like about Lockhart?"

Hermione scowled at him. "Yeah."

"I couldn't believe it when I heard about your tantrum," Harry said, full-on grinning now. "Accidental magic? At thirteen?"

Her scowl grew even darker. "I…I just cannot believe the gall of that man! Insulting Miranda Miguel – a brilliant Potions Mistress – by saying his skills outweigh hers! She's amazing, spectacular – a role model for all muggleborn witches -"

"So you threw a tantrum."

"It wasn't a tantrum!" she shouted, then slapped a hand over her mouth. "You're such a bad influence on me."

"I'm not a bad influence – Lockhart deserved purple hair and boils, he really did….as I've been telling you for months."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes; you were right – and I shouldn't be so stuck up all the time."

"Hey, not your fault you have a teacher fetish."

"HARRY JAMES POTTER!"

* * *

Harry was sitting quietly on one of the blue velvet couches in the common room, scanning over a book on charm theory. No one ever bothered him when he read – there was an unwritten rule in Ravenclaw House that no one was to be interrupted while reading…especially Harry. That was why Harry was so surprised when the book was ripped out of his hands. Looking up, he frowned when he saw Luna holding it upside down between two fingers, staring at it with round, inquisitive eyes.

"…What are you doing?" Harry asked slowly.

Luna blinked, looking at him with wide, blue grey eyes. "Why, Harry the Horrible, I'm looking for a diary."

"A diary? Like, a journal?"

She nodded. "Yes, something like that."

"Why would I have one of those?"

She shrugged.

"Well, why don't you order one, from Flourish and Blotts, maybe?"

She shook her head, stray dishwater blonde strands flinging from side to side. "No, it's a very special, secret diary I'm looking for."

"Uh…is it yours?"

"No, I don't have a diary."

"Right then. Er, well then, why do you want it?"

She held a finger up to her lips. "Shhh. It's a secret."

Harry nodded. "Right. My lips are sealed. I'm great with secrets."

"Oh, I know. I suppose I should look for it in others' houses too…tell me if you find it."

"A very special, secret diary? I'll let you know."

She smiled at him brightly, making to turn away.

"Luna?"

"Yes?"

"My book?"

She blinked, glancing on the tome dangling from between her fingers. "Oh, this isn't it."

"Yeah, so I figured." He took it from her slowly, offering a tentative smile.

"Well, have a nice afternoon, Harry."

Harry nodded and sighed, looking over to the pile of envelopes beside him – he had received even more valentines this year than last year. Grimacing, he stuffed them in his pocket, standing up and heading up to his dorm room.

Having never received a valentine before, last year he had been sorely tempted to look through them all carefully, but in the end, he decided against it; the whole thing was just…strange. Sending anonymous love notes? What was the point? And who would even like someone too cowardly to sign their name on a card? He simply could not understand it – and that bothered him. But it was nothing a quick incendio couldn't fix.

Collapsing onto his bed, he didn't mind Laini as she slithered over to him; his attention was fixed on his notebook. He and Hermione had been able to acquire a set of connected notebooks; whatever one wrote, the other received. It turned out to be a very handy tool for planning their experiments. Wearily, he scanned the notes on possible charms she had found that they could cast on the copper wires they were transfiguring, and then began to jot down relevant points from the book he had been reading.

He smirked when he read the immediate response – Hermione asking if he could clarify his ambiguous terminology. Rolling his eyes, he jotted a few more lines down, mostly definitions, blinking as he found an odd sleepiness sting his eyes. He sighed when his quill dropped from his fingers, and slowly rolled over onto his side.

_:Laini, don't let anyone near my notebook.:_

And hearing the snake hiss her agreement, he drifted into an irresistible slumber.

* * *

"Harry! Harry!"

Harry jumped into a state of awareness, blinking rapidly as tendrils of pain gripped his head relentlessly. "Urgh…"

"You alright, mate?"

He squinted, barely able to make out the form of his friend through his crooked glasses. "T-Terry?"

"Yeah – Harry, it's past seven…I've been trying to wake you for a half hour now."

"Seriously?" Harry groaned.

Terry raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, seriously. You know, you look really pale – you feeling alright?"

"It…it's just a bit of a headache…"

Terry grimaced. "Just a bit, eh? You need to go to the infirmary?"

Harry shook his head. "No – it's nothing like that…"

"Bad dream?" Terry tried.

Harry opened his mouth to say "nothing," but froze when he realized – that it was the truth. "I…can't seem to remember."

"Oh…well, you hungry?"

Harry ran his fingers through hair, cringing as another wave of pain shot through his head. "N-no." He certainly was not hungry – he wasn't thirsty, tired, restless, hot, or cold; he just wanted the headache to go away.

* * *

But the headaches didn't stop. Days passed, and then weeks, and soon months – and the headaches only grew worse. And Harry was starting to get worried.

After a week he had squelched his pride and gone to the infirmary for a check up - according to Madame Pomfrey, there was nothing physically wrong with him. Even so, the woman was kind enough to supply him with some potions to take the edge off the pain. Harry had never felt so thankful for something that tasted so bad - until another two weeks passed, and they stopped working. He made a second trip to the infirmary; apparently, he had built up a tolerance for the potion, and so he was left with the headaches.

Usually he would be able to make it through all his classes, but he had taken to eating meals in the kitchen to avoid the noise of the Great Hall; he very rarely attended study group, and he had been forced to ask Fred and George to postpone all the appointments they had made. The whole thing was grating on his nerves - sometimes he couldn't even think straight - and he could help but feel anxious about what was happening to him.

The only time the pain would subside completely was when he was deeply engrossed in a book, or high on the magical exhilaration of his and Hermione's experiments (which had not yet proven successful) – or when he was asleep…but then the nightmares came. They would whirl through his mind – he knew that much, because when he woke his head was a tempestuous sea of hazy blankness – but at the moment his consciousness slowly pieced everything together upon waking, something would rip the memories away, tearing them into incoherent fragments.

Something strange was definitely afoot. He kept telling himself that if some higher power was messing with him again, they'd barely live to regret it - but in truth, he had no idea what to do.

* * *

"You've really got to get more sleep."

It was Hermione's voice, high and tense with concern.

Meanwhile, Harry started lethargically. "Huh?"

"See?" she said, crossing her arms, "You can't function like this – you've even been falling asleep in class."

"Can you blame me?" Harry groaned, "I've read all the text books already…no point in even going…"

"Harry!" she scolded, "Everyone's worried, you know – "

"Everyone?" he said, frowning. "You mean the small amount of people who don't think I should keel over and die? I can't believe they still think I'm the Heir of Slytherin...point is, I hardly think anyone but you cares that much..."

"Lots of people care," Hermione snapped.

"Yeah, like who?"

"Well, you know, for example…they asked me to talk to you – your housemates. They've noticed that..."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You're not sleeping."

"I am."

"Not _well_."

Harry sighed wearily. "There's nothing to be done about it…"

Hermione bit her lip. "Well, I know it's not stress, unless…you're not still trying to find out who's behind the petrifications, are you?"

"Hermione, I just –"

"Harry," she interrupted, "You said you stopped! I agreed not to tell any teachers…but only if you stopped looking. Whoever or whatever's behind this is dangerous! And if you won't accept any help –"

"I _can't _stop, Hermione – there's just…something. I don't know…but I just can't _not _think about it…like I'm being tugged toward the answer."

She wrung her hands nervously. "Do you think it's one of your…" she lowered her voice, "Seer things?"

He croaked out a laugh. "Honestly? I've no idea. All I know is I've got to find out what's happening, it's got _something _to do with me, and…well, I don't know."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

"I know that! But…you know, I might get this over with a lot faster if…you know, you…helped…me? I mean, I already know it's a snake –" he began rapidly, "I suspect a rare species, called a basilisk; but they're enormous – no idea how it's getting around, but if I found out –"

"Help you? _Help you_? Help you get it into another mess, like you did last year? You almost _died_!"

"I didn't –"

"Don't lie, I know exactly what happened – the magical strain your core endured was enough to obliterate it! Your living past a few hours was an anomaly!"

"Wait, how did you know –"

"Because I sneaked into the infirmary and read Madame Pomfrey's records!"

Harry blinked blearily, trying to process the revelation. _That _he had not expected.

"And now you want me to help you get into a ridiculously dangerous situation, _again_! I can't _believe _you!"

Red faced, she turned away. "I've got a charms essay to finish."

And with that, she marched out of the library, head ducked, frizzy curls hiding her face.

"…wow…"

Harry spun around, finding Terry strolling into the library with a slightly disturbed face.

"Maybe I shouldn't have done that…"

"Done what?" Harry asked, expression still set in an uneasy frown.

"Yeah, um, sorry? I asked Hermione to talk to you…"

"You did what?"

"Well, I was worried! And I had no idea she'd get so upset…"

Harry gritted his teeth. "Hermione's a classic Type A personality, with introverted tendencies – she expresses worry and care through exerting personal control over objects of interest or affection, and a lack of control would induce panic –"

"Yeah, no idea what you're talking about. Summary?"

"Summary?" Harry echoed, "You're an idiot. Of course she'd get that upset."

Terry cringed. "I don't have to…talk to her about it, do I?"

"I believe that at the moment, that would not be in the best interest of your health."

Terry nodded. "Sage advice. You know, we should...hey, Michael! Over here!"

The dark-haired boy across the room whirled about, and seeing the two, immediately began to make his way over.

"What are you doing here?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Terry only shrugged, whilst Harry's frown deepened. "I…can't seem to remember."

Michael snorted. "No surprise there."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, mate," Terry interjected, "That you haven't exactly been very sharp lately."

Harry's frown deepened even further in thought. "I'm always sharp..."

"Not on four hours of sleep," Michael drawled.

"What you need," Terry said, "Is some rest. I know! We should all take a vacation in the kitchens-"

"You do that," Michael interrupted, "But, if all you two'll do is laze about, then I'm going to study for our charms assignment."

"Ooh, that's due in a few days!" Terry exclaimed. "I'll come!"

"Me too," Harry muttered.

"There we go, just like old times!" Terry said, grinning.

"Old times?" Harry queried with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, like last year, researching together in the library – "

"Except," Michael put in, "There's no one to exorcise this year."

"We could try to get Peeves…"

Harry shook his head. "In all the research I did, I didn't find _anything _on exorcising a poltergeist. Not even anything about it being possible..."

Terry deflated slightly. "Oh."

Even Michael looked quite disappointed.

"Besides," Harry said, "I like Peeves."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Of course you do – you should just make friends with him and form your own little merry band of madness."

"Merry band of madness?" Harry asked contemplatively.

"Yeah!" Terry said, "If the prospect wasn't so frightening, I'd join too…but I bet Luna'd join you."

At that, the frown made its way back onto his face. "I haven't seen her around much lately…"

"Nobody has," Michael said, "I saw her a few times, huddled in a corner, writing something…it's strange she's not her usual…chipper self."

Harry bit his lip. "I should talk to her…see what's wrong…"

Terry grimaced. "I don't know if that's such a good idea…"

"Why not?"

"Well think about it! If Hermione's scary when she's in a mood, what'll Luna be?"

"My money's on psychotic," Michael deadpanned.

Harry cringed. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

* * *

Harry smiled lazily as the potion below him didn't blow up when he added the newt's eyes. Since Hermione had revealed to him the existence of the secluded girls' bathroom that Moaning Myrtle haunted, he had taken to not only meeting Hermione there for their experiments (which since her blow-up in the library a few days earlier, had come to a halt), but also stowing a cauldron there under a disillusionment charm. After his excessive number of detentions with Professor Snape, he felt himself ready to try and brew his personally modified mutation of the veritaserum potion on his own.

Turns out, he had only been half right about being ready - he was on his fifth try. And there was only so much money he could spend on potions ingredients before his trust fund ran dry.

Sighing, he covered the cauldron, and looked up at Myrtle, who was hovering deep within his personal space, head resting on his shoulder. "Make sure no one touches this, Myrtle? It's at a very delicate stage right now..."

"Oh, of _course _Harry - anything for you," she replied, giggling coyly.

Harry blinked, feeling the onset of another headache. "Thanks Myrtle, you're a doll."

"Oh, I know Harry, I know," she crooned with a seductive smile.

Resisting a shiver, Harry rose to his feet laboriously, trudging out of the bathroom and down the corridor at the quickest pace he could manage. Halfway to the stairwell, he decided on going to the library in favour of returning to the common room, and so he immediately veered left.

"Harry? Harry!"

Harry spun around as the voice broke through the quiet of the Hogwarts stairways at dawn. "Neville? What're you doing up already?"

The Gryffindor, panting slightly as he ran up to Harry, scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Well, a while ago Hermione mentioned that the two of you had been going to the library before breakfast every morning…I was wondering if you've seen her?"

Harry shook his head. "I haven't talked to her in days."

Neville sighed. "You two fighting again?"

Harry made a face. "…maybe."

Neville only shook his head in exasperation.

"Haven't you seen her? I mean, you're in the same house…"

Neville bit his lip worriedly. "No, I haven't seen her since yesterday…"

Harry frowned. "But…she wouldn't stay in the library all night…"

"I know! I waited up for her, but she never came back."

Harry paused. "Come on, maybe she fell asleep somewhere."

Neville nodded, following him down a few flights of stairwells, and down the corridor that led to the library. The air was cool and wet and still – the hall was void of any movement and noise aside from their own. As the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw's footsteps clattered over their stone path, their eyes darted from side to side, searching for any indication of company.

"Harry!"

Upon hearing Neville's excited voice, Harry's eyes darted down the corridor – and immediately captured the form that Neville's quivering finger was pointed to.

"You were right! She did fall asleep..." the chubby boy's voice faltered as he strode forward, "...on...the floor..."

"Wait, Neville, stop!"

Neville turned around, looking at Harry in puzzlement.

Harry hesitated - his voice didn't quite want to form the words. "She looks...too rigid, to be asleep...doesn't she?"

Neville paled instantly, eyes inching back toward Hermione's frozen frame. "Oh, Merlin, no..."

Taking a deep breath, Harry brushed past him and marched up to Hermione determinedly, kneeling beside her and taking in her terrified, unmoving face. Tearing his gaze away, he observed the mirror in her one hand and something fisted tightly in the other.

"H-Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry whispered, "It got her..."

"Oh...oh no, no, no..."

Ignoring the sounds of Neville's choked panic and distress, Harry shakily reached down to Hermione's fist, carefully pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from her vice-like grip. The writing was messy, rushed, and emphatic – but the effect it had on Harry was anything but briefly passing.

"_Pipes."_

* * *

It felt sort of disjointed, I know...my brain's currently having continuity issues. Oh well.

Let me know what you think!


	28. Of Culmination and Clarity

**Disclaimer**: I own my brain...I think. But that's about it.

**AN**: Ok, so I am so, _so _sorry this has taken so long - exams were positively dreadful this year. But now they're all over, and I've got three weeks of peace...almost. Unfortunately, because exams were so dreadful, I fell way behind in work - soooo...updates will actually be happening now, but I can't see them happening at any incredible rate. Twice a week, I'll try for :)

* * *

**Chapter 28: Of Culmination and Clarity**

"_The construction of a symmetric input-output matrix depends on a rational constant (irrationality or complexity warrants a redesigning of the experiment parameters) predetermined by the Gregor-Schiver Scale (see Appendix C on Gradable Matrix-Constant Scales, pg. 793) – implemented at the initial casting of a passive charm and adjusted in the process of casting additional wards and/or passive or active charms – which, along with a Botticelli multiplier (see pg. 233 for the derivation), are the key terms in the determinant …"_

"Harry?"

"_From which is subtracted a factorial of the sum of the sets of variables in the matrix. The resulting term (which is taken as the nth root, where n is the number of sets present), if real (rational or irrational) and non-complex (note that an imaginary component warrants immediate termination of the procedure), will be the magnitude of the constant filter (less than one, and greater that zero), by which the inputted energy is fractioned by…"_

"Harry!"

Blinking, Harry snapped the book shut, eyes remaining fixed on the cover. "What?"

"Come on, mate," Terry's voice groaned, "It's almost dinner time. We get steak tonight, _steak!_"

"Go away, I'm trying to concentrate."

Harry didn't need to look up to know that Terry was rolling his eyes. "_Arithmantic Matrices for Spell Translation_? Do you even understand that?"

Harry opened his mouth, but hesitated just as his voice was about to leave his throat. "…not really."

Terry sighed quite audibly. "Then _why _are you reading it?"

"We…we need it for our project - me and...Hermione…"

Harry resisted grinding his teeth, easily able to sense the pitying expression form on Terry's face.

"She'll be fine, Harry – they say that it won't be long before the mandrakes for the potion are ready; and then all the petrified students will be back, alive and well. You've got nothing to be worried about."

"I'm not worried. I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Listen, I'm going down to the Great Hall – if you're not there fifteen minutes after, I'm going to look for you...again."

"Fine, fine."

Harry sighed as he heard Terry's footsteps recede, soon disappearing behind the portrait hole. At first, he was sorely tempted to open the highly technical book in his hands; however, his lazy side won over, and he began to wonder why he had tried reading it in the first place. Perhaps he needed a challenge to take things off his mind? To distract from the headaches? To make sure Hermione had some exciting new discovery waiting for her upon her awakening? Perhaps that would make up for her being petrified for assisting him in the research of his most recent obsession.

_"Pipes."_

Harry had started checking the various ventilation and sewage pipes in the school - but to no avail; it would seem that he would have to actually go exploring _inside_ the filthy crevices in order to verify that what was attacking the students was, indeed, a basilisk, which he was not all that keen to do alone. He considered asking Terry and Michael for help, but every time he considered the idea, it was rejected - it would be such a bother to explain everything to them.

He shook his head, wincing as he felt the onset of steady pain swirl about from his scar, and rising shakily to his feet, his gaze, through hooded eyes, swept about the dimly lit common room. It was not until they came to rest on a familiar form that they opened completely.

"L-Luna?"

The small girl was huddled in a dark corner near the hearth, on the floor, rocking slightly as she scribbled away rapidly on something that was hidden behind her thin, curled up legs and scraggly, unkempt blonde hair.

"...Luna?"

Slowly, the rate of the scribbling decelerated, finally stopping, and dull, reddened blue-grey eyes rose to meet his. "Hello Harry Potter," she whispered.

Harry took a tentative step toward her. "Are you…are you alright Luna? You're looking a little ill…"

"As are you," she said, her voice soft, and yet distant and so high it was almost shrill.

"Yes, well, that's what people have been saying," he admitted with a shrug. "As if I'm sick or something…"

"Well are you?" she asked expressionlessly.

He shrugged again. "Dunno. But I was asking if _you're _alright."

She tilted her head to the side, causing her stringy locks to fall over her face, obstructing her eyes. "What business have you asking about others' affairs when yours aren't even on order?"

Harry choked out an incredulous laugh. "None, I suppose – just curious, is all."

She said nothing.

"Are you...are you coming down to dinner?"

"No," she bit out shortly.

"Right." He turned around to leave for the Great Hall, before he hesitated. "Say, what you've been writing in – it's not that 'secret diary' you were looking for back in February, is it?"

She scowled darkly. "None of your business," her high voice sang.

Harry's eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. "Of course it isn't." He shook his head, wincing as a particularly sharp jolt of pain cut through it. "Well, I'll be seeing you…"

But for some reason, he could not bring himself to finish the sentence with her name.

* * *

"…are you sure you don't want to go to the infirmary?" Draco was asking.

Harry and Draco were walking back from the library, having studied for an upcoming potions test together. They figured that, since they were the two best second year potions students in the school, if they studied together, they might just be able to achieve a perfect score on the test. Harry liked studying with Draco - he didn't talk all that much, and that made it easy to concentrate; he also thought that Harry's jokes about poisoning people were funny, unlike a certain prissy muggle-born girl. Nevertheless, once again, Harry's headaches had cut the session short.

"I told you, Draco, the potion Madame Pomfrey gave me stopped working weeks ago," Harry replied, rubbing at his scar.

"Well, you were getting two potions from her, weren't you?"

"Yeah, one for the pain, and one for sleeping at night; it's not strictly for pain like the other one, but it's still an analgesic."

"And they've _both_ stopped working?" Draco pressed incredulously.

"No..." Harry groaned, "The one for pain doesn't work, and she stopped giving me the sleeping draft."

Draco nodded slowly. "But you look like you've been sleeping at least a bit..."

"I figured out how to brew the sleeping potion on my own."

Draco frowned at him. "You do know sleeping potions are addictive, don't you?"

Harry scowled at him. "Of course I do. I'm diluting it," he bit out.

Draco bit his lip, hesitating before he said, "Well, then we should go to my mother. We've got fifteen minutes before history class with her."

"Your mother?" Harry queried, sounding more befuddled than he would have liked.

"Yeah, my mother. When I was little, she used to make potions remedies for everything...literally, _everything_. I'm sure she'll have something that could cure a headache, or at least help you sleep better than whatever diluted sleeping draft you're brewing for yourself – because you really do need to sleep more; you're looking positively dreadful."

"Why don't you just let me borrow some of the make-up you steal from her?" Harry snapped.

"Shut up, Potter – or I'll brew you some poison and put you out of your misery instead."

"Nice to know you've got my back," Harry bit out sardonically, as Draco led him up a different flight of stairs, heading toward Professor Malfoy's classroom.

It did not take long for them to traverse the empty corridors, approaching the classroom from the north side – however, they halted as they heard solemn voices which certainly didn't belong to Mrs. Malfoy emanating from within:

"…_I'm afraid it's already done, Albus," _a slightly quivering unfamiliar voice was saying,_ "Hagrid has been taken away to Azkaban – it will most likely be only temporary, but the Ministry must act –"_

"_Hagrid has my full confidence, Cornelius," _Dumbledore's voice said in a warning tone_._

"_Yes, but Hagrid's got his record against him as well –"_

Frowning, Harry backed away from the door. "What on earth?" he whispered.

"So it's already happened," Draco mused quietly.

"What's happened?" Harry snapped.

Draco glanced over at him. "Hagrid's being arrested for the attacks – apparently, he was behind the Chamber of Secrets attacks during the '40s as well…I heard my mother talking with Professor Snape the other day. I didn't think they were serious…but apparently they were…"

Harry let out a quiet scoff. "That's ridiculous, Hagrid's obviously not the Heir of Slytherin – the very idea's preposterous."

"Well of course he isn't the _real _Heir of Slytherin. Apparently, back during the original attacks, he had let some sort of monster into the castle."

"What sort of monster?"

"Umm…an acromantula, I think."

Harry nodded slowly. "But that just proves his innocence."

Draco frowned. "How so?"

"Acromantulas don't petrify – sure, bringing one into the castle would be a pretty dimwitted thing to do, but the only way it could hurt someone is by poisoning or eating them. I don't know what happened in the 1940s, but no one's been poisoned."

"So…" Draco said, "Someone else is behind the attacks?"

"Obviously," Harry ground out, leaning back to listen through the slightly opened door.

"_I'm afraid that is not all, though," _it was Lucius Malfoy's voice that was speaking now,_ "Dreadful thing, Dumbledore, but the governors feel it's time for you to step aside. This is an Order of Suspension – you'll find all twelve signatures on it. I'm afraid we feel you're losing your touch. How many attacks have there been now? At this rate, there'll be no muggleborns left at Hogwarts, and we all know what an awful loss that would be to the school…"_

Draco's eyebrows rose. "My father's here too?"

Harry looked equally surprised. "I guess that's why they're in your mum's classroom - that had to be a pleasant visit, 'why hello honey, sorry I couldn't visit at Christmas, but I thought I'd just drop by on my way to fire your boss'."

Draco ignored him. "He's…Dumbledore's being suspended?"

"Sorry to say, Draco, but that can't be a very smart move on your father's part, even considering…"

"Considering what?"

Harry shook his head, turning back to the door. "Nothing."

It was the other man, Cornelius's voice that was speaking in an alarmed tone now_. "We simply can't – Dumbledore suspended…that's the last thing we need!"_

"_The appointment – or suspension – of the headmaster is a matter for the governors, Fudge," _Lucius Malfoy said softly,_ "And as Dumbledore has failed to stop these attacks _"_

"_See here, Malfoy, if Dumbledore can't stop them," _the man, now revealed as Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, said, seeming very upset,_ "I mean to say, who can?"_

"_That remains to be seen," _Mr. Malfoy said smugly,_ "But as twelve of us have voted –"_

"_But Malfoy –" _it was Fudge again, sounding quite nervous.

"_Now, now," _Dumbledore interrupted,_ "If the governors want my removal, I shall of course step aside –"_

"_But –" _Cornelius Fudge's frantic voice was now.

"_However," _Dumbledore interjected with pointedly pronounced clarity,_ "Hogwarts will always be a part of me, and I of it – and should the time come when I am needed here once again, I shall be ready." _He clapped his hand._ "Now! I believe our lovely Professor Malfoy has a class due in only a few moments – the students should be arriving any moment now."_

"_Indeed," _Mrs. Malfoy's tranquil, melodious voice sounded for the first time in the conversation,_ "A few are already here."_

Harry and Draco jumped when the classroom door swung open, revealing their presence to all the others within.

Silence permeated through the room, before it was interrupted by Albus Dumbledore's soft chuckles. "Well, we must be going, a good day to you all."

And with that, he strolled out of the classroom merrily, an anxious Cornelius Fudge and a carefully expressionless Lucius Malfoy following, after nodding toward his wife and son. Once they had left, Professor Malfoy turned to the Ravenclaw and Slytherin standing in the doorway, staring at them piercingly.

"Well," she said, finally, her voice soft yet curt, "Take a seat."

They obeyed immediately, both absorbed in their thoughts, the potion forgotten.

* * *

Two of swords.

Nine of swords.

The Tower.

Five of Cups.

The Devil.

Five of pentacles.

Four of swords.

Three of wands, crooked.

The Magician...

The hope was that drawing as many cards as he could would eventually sap away his energy, and he would pass out into a peaceful, magical-exhaustion-induced sleep. No such luck.

It had been two weeks since Hermione had been petrified – and the headaches only seemed to get worse; at this point, even his homemade sleeping draft (which he had stopped diluting) was little help.

"I told you that wouldn't work," Jean's voice drawled from under the pillow, where Harry had stuffed his portrait.

The general consensus, after Hermione's petrification, was that Harry was not the Heir of Slytherin – no, he had been framed. When that rumour spread, most of the student body acted as though he should be grateful, relieved, or pleased, sending him congratulatory-like smiles in the hallways. Harry had just rolled his eyes.

"Come on, brat, I didn't mean what I said before!"

Harry scowled, leaning back against the headboard of his bead, gathering Laini in his arms.

"I was just kidding, I was! You're _not _showing early signs of schizophrenia, I promise!"

Sighing explosively, Harry pulled out the portrait from under the pillow.

"Thank heavens! I thought I was going to suffocate!"

Harry sneered. "That'd be a little difficult, considering you're _dead_."

Jean's portrait frowned. "What's up with you? Did something happen?"

Harry shook his head slowly. "It's nothing, just…another petrification yesterday."

Jean grimaced. "That's what, the third in three weeks?"

Harry nodded. "It all started when…when…Hermione…"

"Oh, come off it," Jean groused, "It's not like you to be so upset about something, brat! She's only been gone for two weeks, and will only be gone for a few more – she'll be _fine_. I don't know what you're so upset about!"

Harry glared at him. "You mean besides the vicious headache that just won't go away? It's pretty obvious that whatever's attacking the students is a basilisk, Jean, a _basilisk_! That means the fact that Hermione – that anyone – survived is not more than a statistical anomaly. Statistically, she's dead! And it's my fault! She told me, over, and over, and over again that it was too dangerous – and when she finally gave in and helped me out, this happened! And do you know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"She's managed to prove me wrong! Me! And she's doing it while petrified! I've been proved wrong by my petrified best friend – and I'm never wrong!"

Jean barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Remember that talk we had about priorities?"

Harry's scowl deepened, before his face was taken over by a pained grimace. "Shut up Jean."

"Not going to happen."

He glanced over at the portrait. "You sure you have no idea what's happening to me?"

The man in the portrait only shook his head.

"Because it could be plenty of things – a genetic condition, a Seer thing…"

"I don't know, brat – I'm not a doctor, and you're a little young for headaches…sorry I can't be of more help," he finished quietly.

Groaning, Harry rolled over, burying his head in his pillow. Eventually, he managed to relax his breathing, measuring it carefully in an attempt to control and distance the pain – however, suddenly, the slamming of the dorm room door sharply reawakened his agony.

"Harry!"

Of course, it was Terry.

"Harry!"

"He's _so_ annoying," Jean whispered hoarsely.

Harry didn't even have the energy to smirk.

"Harry, come on, I know you're awake!"

"Go away, Terry," he croaked out.

"Sorry mate, no can do – there's been another attack. Thought you'd want to know."

Harry darted up, ignoring the worsening pain in his head. "Who – what happened?"

"We don't know yet – this attack was different from all the others."

Harry frowned, squinting as the pulsing in his head grew heavier. "How so?" he barely managed to form the words.

"Well," Terry began uneasily, "There was no body, just more words written on the wall; it said – 'Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever...'"

Harry shivered involuntarily at the words, wincing again. "Is…is someone missing...?"

"That's what they're trying to find out," Terry said worriedly, chewing on the corner of his lip between sentences, "The prefects are supposed to account for all of us, in the common room."

Harry cringed as another wave of agony billowed through his skull. "J-just...just tell them I'm up here...I...I need...quiet..." he gasped out.

"You alright?" Terry inquired cautiously.

"N-not really..."

Harry barely made out the motion of Terry nodding slowly. "Yeah, you don't look it either – you should lie down; I'll tell everyone to stay away for a while."

"Thanks Terry," Harry muttered, collapsing onto his bed and curling into a tense foetal position. He didn't even notice Terry leaving the dorm room quietly, as forceful sleep overtook him the moment he closed his eyes.

* * *

Harry woke.

Now, there was nothing extraordinary in the event of waking in itself; it was rather Harry's manner of waking that left him dumbstruck. For one thing, his headache had disappeared; all that was left was faint, pulsing echoes of dizziness, only reminiscing on the splitting agony he had hitherto endured. In fact, the most prominent discomfort he was suffering was from the small shape he pulled out from under him, his Brilliant Boundless Bag, which was sopping wet...just like him. Which led him to the other novel aspect of his waking was what had awakened him – water. The wetness of his waking state was baffling to say the least; for indeed, he found himself lying face down on a hard, marble tiled floor, coated in a shimmering layer of cold water.

He grimaced as he willed his sore limbs to move, to support him as he shakily rose to his feet and cast his eyes about his surroundings, acknowledging with great disconcertment that he was, in fact, in a very familiar bathroom.

"Well, you're _finally _awake," a crooning voice mused.

Spinning around, Harry took in the shape of none other than Moaning Myrtle's translucent form. "M-Myrtle?"

"Hello Harry," she said in a very inappropriately flirty manner.

He frowned, leaning over slightly onto one of the bathroom sinks for support. "How – how did I get here?"

"Well, it was the strangest thing. Here I was, sitting in the window, contemplating death, when you stumble in, unannounced, and collapse right onto the floor!"

"I…I walked in?"

She giggled. "I think," she whispered conspiratorially, "That you might have been sleep-walking! Sleep-walking into the girls' bathroom, you naughty, naughty boy!"

Harry fought down a blush.

Myrtle smirked. "And you just _wouldn't_ wake up – even when I poured some of my toilet water on you."

Harry now had to try very hard to keep from hyperventilating in horror – Myrtle's toilet water? That was just so, _so_ wrong.

"You're looking a little peaky, Harry – though not half as bad as the other one…"

Snapping to attention, Harry met her eyes urgently. "The other one?"

"Yes," Myrtle said, pouting slightly, "_You_, haven't been visiting me much, but there's a girl who's been coming – she just ignores me, of course."

His weary, strained mind couldn't quite register the implications of those words, and yet panic was welling up in his chest, and he could not keep the dread out of his voice as he asked, "What does she do in here?"

"Well, I told you, she ignores me," Myrtle sniffed, "So I ignore her too – she's just here one second, and gone the next."

Harry nodded slowly. "And what does she look like?"

"Well," Myrtle replied thoughtfully, "Long, stringy blonde hair, _short _– a Ravenclaw, like you and I. And her eyes..."

"Blue-grey?"

"No," Myrtle snapped, "_Red_, the most terrible red I have ever seen."

Vague recollections of a terrible face and cold, murderous crimson eyes flashed about in Harry's mind. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the faucet of the sink he was leaning on tightly as the confusion swept through his already sluggish mind. However, he suddenly froze when he felt something – his thumb brushing against an uneven patch on the copper faucet. He lifted his hand, and out of the corner of his eye, he observed the strangest thing; a scratching on the faucet that looked eerily like a serpent –

_"Pipes."_

Pipes, sinks, water, faucets - all the pieces started to fall together.

"H-how…how did you die, Myrtle?"

Myrtle gasped, a flattered, thrilled look washing over her face. "Ooh, it was positively _dreadful_," she crooned with relish, "It happened right in here. I died in that very stall-" she pointed to the stall nearest to the sinks "-I remember it so well. I'd hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been."

Harry's blood ran cold as his breath caught in his throat.

"Anyway, what really got me was that it was a _boy _speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then – I _died_."

Harry let out his breath, eyebrows twitching slightly. "You…died."

"That's right."

"…how?"

"No idea," she said nonchalantly, "I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away…"

Harry nodded slowly – it all made sense. "The girl who keeps coming in – she disappears by this sink, doesn't she?"

"Why yes, yes she does."

"And you hear the same funny language?"

"Why, now that you mention it, I suppose I do…"

Harry took a deep breath, turning toward the sink. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try. _:Open up?: _

At once, the tap began to glow an eerie white, before it started to spin – and then, the sink moved, slowly inching toward the ground, disappearing into a great, dark pipe.

Harry peered down into the darkness, an oddly anxious and yet anticipatory tempest welling up in his chest, melding with the cloudy dizziness in his head to produce a strangely wistful feeling. "I'll be seeing you, I suppose, Myrtle," he whispered to the dumbstruck ghost.

"Y-you're g-going down there, Harry?"

"Yeah."

"Why!"

"There…there's something down there…" A wave of dizziness, a thrilling sensation, swept down his spine, and he shivered, feeling the strangest, swirling pull permeate from his mind, willing him into the darkness. "I think it's waiting for me…"

And with that, he plunged into the darkness. The pipe was cold, grimy, and wet – and it just went, on, and on, sloping steeply into the unmeasured darkness. It twisted and turned only slightly – falling and falling into the aimless stretches below for lengthy, drawling minutes – meandering just a bit as it levelled out ever so slowly, but not slow enough to bring him to a complete halt, as the pipe suddenly spat him out, and he landed on a slimy, wet stone floor with a disgusting _splat_.

"Ugh." His groan echoed down the tunnel, and he didn't bother to hide his disgust has he rose to his feet cautiously, desperately trying to ignore his six-year-old memories of cleaning out the Dursley's gutter and taking out their compost rising to the surface. Pointedly keeping himself from breathing through his nose, he reached into his Brilliant Boundless Bag and pulled out his wand, whispering a quiet, _"Lumos."_

The light did little to reveal the path through the darkness which seemed to loom up from everywhere, but Harry steeled himself, and plunged into it nonetheless. His meager spell, however, did manage to highlight the plethora of rodent skeletons on the floor - along with an enormous snake skin that nearly caused him to jump out of his own. The dry, dead, scaled tissue was at least twelve metres long, curling about the edge of the tunnel; Harry forced himself to ignore the implications that the imposing object brought forth. Even so, it only served to intensify the anxiety that was building inside of him – anxiety that peaked when he rounded the next corner.

For before him, stark and sudden, stood a solid wall upon which two entwined serpents were carved in great detail, down to every scale, their eyes set with great, luscious, glimmering emeralds. As he traced the shapes with a frail finger, he could not help but notice – despite the murky air – how parched his mouth, lips and throat were, contrasting with the glassy, life-like emerald eyes the stone serpents stared at him with. It was intimidating, the piercing stare – and staring back into it, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

He took a deep breath, hesitating. What was on the other side of the wall? Did he even want to know?

Apparently, he didn't really care.

_:Open.:_

The hiss was faint, barely audible, but the serpents curling about the wall parted nonetheless, as the wall cracked open, the halves sliding smoothly out of sight. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes as he stepped through, opening them again once he had crossed over the threshold.

He found himself standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit chamber – the oh-so-creatively-named 'Chamber of Secrets,' he suspected. Towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd, sickeningly greenish gloom that filled the place. Barely daring to breathe in the murky, damp air, he gripped his wand even tighter, though dimming the spell, and moved forward between the serpentine columns with slow caution. Every careful footstep echoed loudly off the shadowy walls, pulsing loudly like his pounding heart. Questions were swirling about in his muddled mind – what was he doing? Why was he even there? Hadn't he learnt his lesson last year? But even that uneasy level of confusion couldn't stop him.

The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be following him as he crept down the wet pathway, and every so often he would twitch violently; for he thought, perhaps, they stirred of their own accord. Finally, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall. It depicted a man, standing great, tall, and majestic, his face stern, pointed, and grim, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth, wet Chamber floor. And between those two feet were two figures that nearly made his blood freeze in his veins.

The first figure he recognized immediately – Luna Lovegood's limp form, draped over the cold, wet stone steps leading up to the statue. The figure leaning over her, a ghostly shape threading it's fingers through her hair, took longer to register; at first, he fancied it an older version of himself, but when he looked closer, he saw it – a familiar frame, bone structure, and eyes.

"Tom…" he whispered slowly, recalling the face of a pale, dark haired boy that had infiltrated his mind a year ago.

The figure, seeming to flicker faintly in the dim light, turned his eyes toward him. "Harry Potter. I've been expecting you."

Harry's face morphed into a frown. "How?"

The figure cast his eyes down to Luna. "She kept calling your name – Seers are amazing creatures, don't you think? Astral projection, though, is a funny thing; very hard to control, very tricky, especially with someone running interference. She kept trying to talk to you, but I'd be willing to bet that it didn't do much more than very nearly turn your brain to jelly."

Harry tried his very best not to gape. Astral projection? A _very_ obscure way of magically contacting someone – a form of offensive scrying that required a _lot _of meditation. Yet another puzzle piece – it explained the headaches…sort of. Who was Tom, really, and how could him 'running interference' nearly split Harry's head open? And how would you even go about interfering with scrying? Unless… "Are you…?"

"A seer? Heavens, no. The abilities are fascinating, but in my humble opinion, not worth the amount of mental control you have to relinquish to get them." The boy chuckled amusedly, shaking his head. "Take her, for instance – her mind's an atrocious mess; it was very hard to control her, to keep her quiet, this one, but it was oh so worth it. Even though there was a lot of rubbish to sort through, I learnt...so many things."

"I-is she dead?" Harry whispered.

"No, not yet, anyway." His lips twitched. "But I'm feeling positively wonderful, so it can't be long now."

"You possessed her," Harry said flatly, the final pieces of the puzzle clicking into place as his eyes flickered down to the small black book clutched in Luna's white hands. "You possessed her, and you're taking her life for your own. That's how you interfered with her scrying - you were _inside _her the whole time. It's that diary, isn't it?"

A small smile flitted across the older boy's face as he glanced down at the book in Luna's hand. "Now why would you think something like that?"

"It's cursed, isn't it?" Harry said with narrowed eyes. "Luna started acting strange…stranger after she began talking about a diary. Moaning Myrtle, the ghost in the bathroom, said she kept coming down here. She's been opening the chamber, but not on her own. "

The other boy's dark eyebrows rode. "What an interesting deduction…"

Harry tore his eyes, which had drifted over, magnetized, to Luna's frail, unconscious figure, snapped upwards. "You're…_you _are the diary."

The boy smiled amiably, patronizingly. "Mmm...not quite. You see, Harry Potter, what I am is a memory, stowed away in that diary; and I've been waiting many, many years to finish what I started."

Harry's eyes widened. "You! You're the one that opened the Chamber fifty years ago! You're the one that framed Hagrid…"

The boy, Tom, chuckled. "Yes, even _I _was surprised that stuck – as if that bumbling oaf had the intelligence to uncover the chamber – as if a filthy halfbreed like that could be the Heir of Slytherin!"

Harry wanted to argue – he really did like Hagrid – but truth be told, those were the same objections that had popped into his mind when he heard about Hagrid being carted off to Azkaban...they just formed in a slightly less _derisive _way. "So instead of risking discovery, and starting the attacks again, you somehow stored your memory in the diary...to finish the job later." He gritted his teeth. "And you possessed Luna to do it."

"Well, not at first – Ginny Weasley, I believe her name was, she was the first to open the diary."

Harry's eyes widened in recognition.

"But then the strangest thing happened – she," he gestured down to Luna, "Stole it from her. At first, I admit, I was rather surprised, and frustrated – I was making such headway on Ginny Weasley. But as it turns out, it was all for the best. Little Luna Lovegood – what a mind…at first I was furious, but then, I finally figured it out. The poor girl…as I said, she isn't exactly sane, but when you unravel it – oh, the things she knew…"

"What did you do to her?" Harry said furiously, "If you hurt her -"

The other boy looked at him condescendingly. "Don't look at me like that – as if you actually care."

Harry sputtered furiously, the short comment stabbing at him with disconcerting forcefulness. "I do! Luna's my friend, and if you hurt her -"

"Well, you see," Tom said softly, "There's a bit of a problem with that. I know the truth, Harry - she's not your friend..."

"Of course she is," Harry ground out.

"You forget, Harry, I've been watching your every move, studying everything you do, for nearly a year now – and I must say, we're very much alike, you and I. Both halfbloods raised by atrocious, disgusting muggles, both powerful, miles ahead of our classmates, and we both have a penchant for dark magic..."

"Just like hundreds of other students over the years, no doubt," Harry hissed impatiently.

But Tom ignored him. "...You curse people you don't like, collect people that fascinate you. You see, just like me, you don't have friends, because you don't need them."

"I have plenty of friends," Harry retorted, "Hermione, Luna, Terry, Michael, Neville, Anthony –"

Tom scoffed at him. "Those aren't friends, and you know it – practically all you ever do is lie to them, and they know next to nothing about you. Little Luna here, for example, she knows very little about you besides the muffled whispers the gods send her in her sleep. You've manipulated them into liking you with a bit of charm and the sort of insanity and chaos that draws people in – they don't know you, and so they can't truly care about you. And you don't even know _how _to care about people."

Harry winced, feeling the headache begin to return as he gritted his teeth throughout Tom's speech. "Look, I don't know who you are, or what you want, but if you're thinking that all this pointless drivel is somehow going to make me have a breakdown or something, and that I'll somehow just let you get away with hurting Luna like this, then you're sorely mistaken."

"Not at all, Harry," Tom said emphatically, "I'm simply making a point."

"Which is…?"

"That we're very much alike – and that an amiable relationship between us would be mutually beneficial."

Harry almost choked. "You're trying to convince me that I don't have any friends so that I'll be friends with you?"

Tom sneered at him. "Don't be ridiculous - we don't need friends; just like we don't need rules, and we certainly don't need their morality telling us what's right and wrong. I'm simply trying to help you: you're tired, anyone can see it – and not just because of the headaches – it's wearing you down, trying to be like them. Thinking that you can change because for once, you've found yourself in a world that doesn't seem quite as drear as the one you came from." Tom's eyes glistened with empathy that Harry knew was completely fake. "They're starting to make you feel guilty, responsible, as if what happens to them is any of your concern – as if you should restrain how you act to spare _them. _When, in fact, one day they'll be just as good to you dead."

Harry made a show of rolling his eyes, resisting the twitch the that threatened as more pain ensued. "It's sad that you have to project your obvious psychopathy onto me – I know you need help, but wait a few years, and I'm sure any decent psychiatrist will make a diagnosis and write you a prescription for anti-psychotics. In the meantime, I'll ask again: is there really a point to this? Because I'm bored, and I'm tired, and I've got a headache, and I don't even know _why the bloody hell _I'm down here at all!"

Tom sneered at him. "_The point_, is that it's time to let go, Harry – I've had a great deal to catch up on (50 years is a long time, after all), and it turns out there are many things I have to fix. Wizards like you and I – powerful, charismatic, intelligent, and not held back by tradition or the silly impulses implanted in our heads from birth that human beings have the audacity to call good and evil – we're far and few in between. Together," Tom shivered in ecstasy, "The things we could do. There's so much I can show you, so much I can teach you. You'll be the first mistake I'll fix, and then together, we could do _anything_."

Harry felt a sudden sinking sensation, and unbidden, his face slackened. Harry was Tom's mistake? But that would mean...No, no, it couldn't be – his luck just wasn't _that _bad. "Wh-who are you?"

Tom blinked. "Oh, you haven't guessed?"

Any hope that was left in Harry drained out of him like the colour in his face.

A gleeful grin on his face, Tom picked up Luna's willow and thestral-hair wand and began to trace the letters 'TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE' in the air. And with a flick of his wand, they danced about, tumbling into a new phrase:

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

"Of course," Harry whispered despairingly. "You're him."

Tom smirked.

"Lord Voldemort - without decades' of disguises plastered on." He took a deep breath. "I've been looking for you."

"As I have been for you," Tom said with a look of pacific smugness on his face.

"Lord Voldemort's true identity," Harry repeated softly, still in shock. "A Slytherin," he glanced down at Tom's Hogwarts uniform, "And a prefect; an ambitious, intelligent, cunning Hogwarts student - I suppose you fit the profile."

"Why, I'm flattered that you thought so well of me," Tom purred.

Harry stirred, awakened from his daze. "Your future self, he's a monster, you know - barely human anymore."

Tom sighed sadly. "Yes, unfortunately, my future self seems to have gotten sidetracked along the way. I told you, Harry, I have a lot of things to fix - that's why I need your help."

"My help with what?" Harry suddenly snapped, "If the Voldemort that killed my parents wasn't the Voldemort you wanted to become, then what did you want? What is your endgame, and why are you so sure I'll help you with it!"

"I already told you, to _fix _things. Muggles, muggleborns, the ministry of magic - it's time those disgusting parasites were purged from this world."

"Everything, everyone's a parasite," Harry whispered, "But they also give birth, and create new things - why would you want to destroy _so much_?"

"For the same reason you cursed Zacharias Smith - because they repulse me; because they represent pain, weakness, and the ugliness of this world." He narrowed his eyes at Harry. "You feel it too - those relatives of yours, the _muggles_ - you feel the same for them."

"I despise them, but I'd _never _kill them."

"See, that's the difference between you and I - I'm just more honest than you. Someday, you'll understand why I've done what I've done."

Harry sneered furiously. "Yeah? Think I'll understand why you killed my parents then, as well?"

Tom was silent for a moment, before he smiled pleasantly. "Of course."

Harry took a deep breath, shakily releasing it after a long hesitation. "I wanted to know your name, your real name. But after last year, I stopped myself from looking – I told myself I didn't care anymore, that Lord Voldemort's all there is, that he's just like every other more-depraved-than-usual human being on the face of the planet – a greedy, selfish bully with a god complex, whose mum dropped on his head one too many times. Another Uncle Vernon, minus the nose and plus a wand." Harry lifted his expressionless green eyes to meet smouldering red ones, alight with both fury and amusement. "But it's never that simple, is it? It couldn't be just that easy, for once. I thought I could just not care – that I could find a way to kill you, end it all, and I'd feel that much better. But it's not just that, is it? I didn't think you'd be a halfblood..." Shakily, he coughed out a laugh as he feebly brought his wand up to eye-level, pointing it square between the other boy's eyes. And as he did, the faintest tremor of vulnerability shook his emerald stare. "I've never felt like this before," he whispered, astonished, "But I think – I think I might really, actually, _hate you._"

Tom's face was completely expressionless; he didn't even blink when he inched to the side, only just missing Harry's wordless cutting hex.

It was only when Harry darted forward that Tom moved, stepping gingerly away from Luna Lovegood's body as Harry flew towards it, several instinctual spells bursting out of his wand as he did.

Tom reciprocated with a blasting curse which Harry dodged nimbly, and then a cutting curse that nicked Harry's hand, nearly causing him to drop his wand.

He only managed to fire off a stinging hex before Tom responded with another curse; Harry was forced to use _protego_ – it still wasn't his best spell, as he noticeably favoured dodging over blocking – to shield both him and Luna.

Tom smirked at him. "Come now, this isn't helping either of us, you know."

"That's not the point –"

"You obviously don't understand," Tom said sternly, "What's at stake – what you're giving up – how great you could be!"

"It doesn't matter!" Harry cried, throwing an over-charged burning hex Tom's way, which was carelessly flicked away.

"It's all that matters!" Tom hissed, "And I'll make you understand, one way or another – _crucio_!"

Harry was about to put up another _protego_, but then it struck him that it would be futile – every instinct in him screamed at him to move, but for some reason, he couldn't; he glimpsed a glimmer of Luna's lifeless blue eyes reflecting off the wet floor, and he froze. But only for a split second; for a moment passed and then suddenly, a jolt sparked at what felt like every nerve ending in his skin, before racing over and into every inch of his body, searing through his nerves and up his spine. The fiery agony came to rest in the back of his head – in the cerebellum, he could not help but muse as intense, panicky fear seized him – before it burst into his head; and suddenly, it felt like everything was being burnt and frozen at once, millions of needles ripping through his skin and retracting before he could even perceive them. He felt his body begin to seize, and he vaguely registered Tom talking about _something_ – but he just couldn't get his brain to function; he was sure the cerebral cortex was slowly being burnt away.

Before it all stopped – Tom's hand fell to his side, and the pain simply stopped, leaving Harry with mere tingling and twitching.

"See, Harry?" Tom said. "_This_ is power – this is what you could have at your finger tips. And let me tell you, Harry, it feels _amazing_..."

But Harry wasn't listening. Phantom pain still shot through his limbs, and on top of that, his headache was returning – a building pressure in his forehead. He just wanted it all to stop – the pain, the twitching, the wetness, the fatigue – and most of all, he wanted Tom to just shut up and die. Unfortunately, as per his bad luck, the chances of any of those things happening was ever so slowly inching toward infinitesimal; unless...

Mustering all his strength, he bit his lip, ignoring the coppery taste filling his mouth as he inched his nearly paralyzed arm toward Luna's limp form, stopping and retracting it when he found what he was looking for – the diary. An exhilarating tingle swept over his body as he drew the book close to him along with his wand, and he used the energy to sweep away his drowsiness as he attempted to prop himself up.

And suddenly – thank whatever deity present – Tom stopped, eyes darting to the little black book Harry was gripping tight.

"This," Harry croaked out in response to the silence, "This is you – th-the medium. If I destroy this, you die, right?"

Tom smirked. "Assuming you could destroy it. There's not a spell in this world that could destroy it – except perhaps fiendfyre. But that's beyond even me at the moment. No, I'm afraid sweet little loony Luna Lovegood is doomed to die – and you're doomed to watch her. There's nothing you can do about it. You lose, Harry Potter."

Harry glared at the book at his hand, willing himself to stop panicking, to think of _something_ – anything. Before he knew what was happening, his heart began to pound in his chest and his breathing was becoming shallow; he could feel tears pricking at his eyes – a panic attack, really?

"_Confingo! Incendio! Reducto!" _he coughed out, but the weak spells barely connected with the book, and frantically, he dropped his wand and the book, reaching for his B3 and dumping the contents onto the wet floor, sifting through them with shaking hands.

Meanwhile, Tom chuckled bemusedly, shaking his head. "I told you, it's futile – you've lost. You can't defeat me; you can't destroy the diary - it's imp-"

"Impossible, I know," Harry bit out angrily, glaring, "But impossibility and I don't really get along that well."

Before Tom could summon the diary or cast another curse, with swiftness that Harry could only thank the gods for, his hand darted into the dishevelled pile of trinkets and withdrew a knife – the sacrificial knife he had found at Borgin and Burke's ten months ago – and plunged it into the diary.

Nothing happened. And Harry was hard pressed to restrain a disappointed sob. He knew, he should have known, it wouldn't have worked; sacrificial knives were no good for breaking curses or shattering wards – they didn't destroy, they transferred life. Tom had said that nothing of this world could destroy his diary – the knife wasn't of this world; it fit perfectly. But this wasn't a puzzle, Harry reminded himself, this was crummy, bad-luck ridden life.

He started when he registered the sound of footsteps, light footfalls manifesting in pronounced splashes, echoing down the chamber. Lifting his weary eyes, he blearily glared at Tom, who stood before him with a smug but curious look on his face. The older boy, not relinquishing eye contact, reached down an picked up the book, still skewered with Harry's knife – only then did the ravenously glowing red orbs flicker away.

"Well," he said softly, "You somehow managed to damage it. Impressive, curious, clever, perhaps – but it won't save you. You failed –"

Suddenly, though, Tom's grating voice stopped short. Frowning, Harry barely managed to gather the strength to look up, squinting, but then gasping. He registered a new sound, as his eyes attempted to make sense of the sight before him; the sound of gagging, choking. Tom was bleeding; from his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears, everywhere – and so was the diary. The diary was _bleeding_, and the blood was _black._ Harry would have thought himself to be hallucinating, were it not for the sensation of genuine glee that swept through his shuddering form when Tom collapsed to his knees, quickly paling and starting to shake. But Harry's glee quickly faded into horror as he noticed the strangest thing.

The black, oozing bloody pouring out of Tom in his diary had dripped onto the wet floor – but not into a puddle, but rather a swirling stream, creeping toward Harry; already, it was crawling onto the hand that he was using to support his weight, mingling with his own blood and infiltrating his own wound. Suddenly, the pain in his head erupted full-force, and he cried out in terror as the black blood began to inch up his arms at a quickening rate, a cold yet searing sensation ripping into him as his flesh absorbed the viscous liquid. Harry's eyes met Tom's, which were no less panicked, and for a moment he froze, as the strangest sensation of feeling connected, of feeling _empathy _for Tom came over him – _they were both going to die_. And that was when the fear set in.

The black blood had crawled up his neck and onto his face; but now, _now _he could feel it burning his eyes and nostrils and filling his mouth, forcing its way down his throat. The panic was quickly overwhelming him.

"No!" he choked out, sputtering as his throat began to burn. "Get it out of me! Get out of me!"

He was on the floor – he didn't know how he got there. He felt his whole body convulsing, he felt every electrical jolt as his synapses registered the pain – the pain, it wasn't pain; it was pure agony. Five minutes ago, he wouldn't have thought it remotely possible, but the cruciatus curse paled in comparison – this new sensation was ripping not only his body, but every fibre of his being apart; and all he wanted to do was _die._ It just had to end – he didn't care anymore; he could look nothingness in the face without flinching if only the pain would _stop_.

And as everything went black, he thought maybe, just maybe, his wish had been granted.

* * *

Alright - so, what do you think? I know, no basilisk - here's the thing, though: I never understood why Tom Riddle would use the basilisk to kill Harry. It struck me as odd that someone so narcissistic wouldn't want to finish Harry off himself, feel the blood dripping down his own hands….avada kedavra didn't make much sense either…

Anyway, hope it was worth the wait.


	29. Of Worries and Waking

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter, duh. Also, there's a small quote at the end made by Luna - even though it's technically public domain, I'll make a note that it comes from John Milton's _Paradise Lost _- one of my favourite books of all time :)

**AN**: First and foremost - thank you, all my wonderful, faithful readers, for sticking around and waiting for this wretched, overworked author to get her affairs in order and actually start authoring things again!  
Anyway, this chapter basically ties all the climactic things together, resolves some tensions, blah blah blah. I like next chapter better - it involves several instances of imbibing dubious mind altering toxins. I guess that's just something else to look forward to :D

* * *

**Chapter 29: Of Worries and Waking**

"Ugh…"

When Harry awoke, he found himself in a strange place…again. It was dark, cold, dry, and utterly, completely empty – a void. Was he dead? He had no way of knowing; he certainly wasn't in heaven, but at least it didn't seem as though he was in hell. Endless, formless blackness stretched on without definition around him; and though nothing about it was solid, Harry found himself able to stand, his feet resting on the sturdiness of nothing. It was odd, he thought, that he didn't feel afraid – in fact, he didn't feel anything; no fear, no pain, no anxiety. He simply felt…comfortable; the place was stunningly familiar, and for reasons unbeknownst to him, he felt at home, and it was almost as though he never wanted to leave.

"You know, it's no wonder you fancy Hogwarts as your own little dollhouse – your mind is rather...bleak."

Harry jumped, spinning about frantically to find none other than a 16-year-old Tom Marvolo Riddle standing behind him, his form defined even in the stark darkness, the coy smile on his face barely keeping the simmering fury beneath contained.

"W-what the hell are you doing here?" Harry cried hoarsely, an odd, vulnerable anger creeping into his voice, as he struggled to keep the inexplicable feeling of violation from creeping over him. Either way, the prospect of being in hell just became all the more likely.

Meanwhile, Tom sighed melodramatically. "It was very clever, I'll admit – the sacrificial dagger. Blessed by magics not of this world, designed to draw out and disperse the life within an object..."

"How do you know that…?" Harry really didn't even know why he was asking, and yet he couldn't keep the defensive, demanding tone out of his voice.

"Why, I saw it, in your memories, of course."

"My, my memories!" Harry exclaimed, outraged.

"Yes…" Tom drawled, "My favourite part was when you lit your uncle on fire – brilliant, that. Classic comedy."

Harry exhaled shakily. "Then we're really…really in my…"

"Your mind? Yes."

"Well, then get out!"

For the first time since Harry had met him, Tom allowed an undisguised, genuine glare to break through his mask. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Well why the bloody hell not?" Harry snarled.

Tom looked at him with a ravenously fascinated look on his face. "Well, that's actually quite an interesting story. Your knife - it released me from the diary...it would have forced me to pass on...if it weren't for you."

"What?"

"Well Harry, you see when I told you, before, that I'm a memory, I wasn't exactly telling the truth – not all of it, anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

"The soul," Tom began, "Is a very curious thing, a curious thing indeed. It can be stretched, thinned, expanded, ripped out, and even split into pieces – but the odd thing is that no matter how cleanly the pieces are cut, how tightly they're shackled down and stowed away, they'll always yearn for each other, and always strive to reunite."

The words meant something, something important, Harry knew, but he couldn't quite make the deduction; he couldn't quite register the only logical conclusion – he wasn't sure he wanted to either. "More drivel –"

"Imagine," Tom continued, ignoring Harry, "What would happen if a soul piece was loosened from its bonds – with powerful magic, such as the magic of the gods, for instance – it would try to reattach itself to one of its other pieces, wouldn't it? If the other piece was too far away, the freed soul piece would just pass on, like it was supposed to – but if there was another piece nearby, it would latch on tightly, and never let go…"

"But there isn't," Harry insisted, "Just me, you, and Luna. You – you're dead, and this, this is just my mind playing tricks on me –"

"Really? You think so?"

"Yeah, you bloody deaf?"

Tom chuckled amusedly. "You've always known, Harry Potter...that we're connected; that you're...special..."

"Oh, will you just shut up?"

Tom looked at him with a condescending leer. "Did you really think that what happened that night was without consequence? That nothing changed, that the killing curse reflected right off you and left naught more than a cut?" He traced a slender finger down Harry's frozen, pale face. "No..." his voice was soft, hissing, "Cracked...that's what your soul is – not quite broken, yet not quite healthy; it absorbed part of the curse. But the rest – it attacked my older self, and there was just enough power left in the curse to split him in two. The part of the soul housing my older self's spirit fled, but the other half – it was still strong enough to latch onto a body that was not its own, one with room for it to fit, one with a broken soul; I wonder where it went? "

"No," Harry whispered hoarsely, trying desperately to level his ever quickening ragged breathing. "Impossible – I…I can't be – I'm…I'm me, Harry Potter – I'm not him!"

"Hush…" Tom said softly, "Of course you're not." His eyes flickered to the side. "But that is."

With trepidation, Harry's eyes followed Tom's, widening in horror when they came to rest on an atrocious, enormous shape – a towering form that could only be described as a oozing blob of black goo. It climbed high up into the blackness, bubbling furiously, and yet seemingly restrained to a corner.

"It's called a horcrux," Tom whispered in Harry's ear, "I'm one too – but much better looking, if I do say so myself. We're pieces of Tom Riddle's soul – who knows, on the other hand...maybe you are too..."

Harry took a feeble step back. "W-what's it doing? Why's it just sitting there?"

Tom sighed. "I can't quite seem to figure that out either – it seems to be restrained, somehow."

Momentarily relieved, Harry mustered up the courage to look Tom in the eye. "You're stuck here then, too, in my mind?"

Tom hummed softly, belying the flickering torrent of anger sparking in his ruby-red eyes. "So it would seem – I explored this wretched dump a bit, while you were asleep; I didn't find anything, though. Sometimes, I thought I saw something that looked like a door – but then I'd run over, and it would disappear. It almost as though...something's trying to keep us here, lost, in the darkness..."

Harry's eyes narrowed.

"It was the same with your memories, of course – I managed to find and sift through a few of them, but others; they were just blurs, or dark spots...under normal circumstances, I'd never say this, but your mind is a rather frightening place, Harry Potter."

Harry didn't respond, his mind was too busy furiously piecing things together, ignoring the mental anguish that threatened him through the recent direction of the conversation, before he nodded slowly in understanding. "It's a failsafe..." he mused.

"A failsafe?" Tom echoed incredulously, "Your mind has a failsafe?"

"I have natural mental shields," Harry said quietly, "I – apparently, some higher power doesn't want anyone but the owner of this body to have full access."

Tom's eyes flashed with understanding. "And only one person can have uncontested ownership of a body."

Harry nodded. "Only one of us will make it out of here…"

"And the other will be imprisoned, locked down just like that," Tom concluded, gesturing toward the oozing blob in the corner.

"Yeah," Harry replied quietly, the cogs in his brain already turning with impressive speed.

"Well, you might as well just give up now," Tom said condescendingly, "We've already established that I'm the stronger –"

He never completed his sentence, though, as he doubled over in pain, shielding his recently attacked groin as he gasped for air.

"You little _cretin –"_

"You forget, Tom," Harry sneered, "That there's no wands, no magic in here – just fists and feet. And while you may know hundreds more spells than me, I – well, let's just say I was around when Dudley when through his Bruce Lee phase."

With that, he didn't hesitate to sprint forward and drop-kick Tom in the chin; but Tom was prepared this time, and while he took the kick, he also caught Harry's leg, and dragged him down to the ground. Harry panicked when the larger boy tackled him, beginning immediately to pound Harry in the face – but Harry managed to roll to the side and sharply elbow his opponent in the jugular, scurrying out of his reach.

As Harry managed to catch his breath, spitting out a bloody tooth (_it's only imaginary, only in my mind,_ he reminded himself), Tom stumbled to his feet, wiping some blood off his chin as a furious scowl formed on his face. When Tom caught his breath first, and rushed him, Harry panicked a moment, but then darted to the side; Tom's legs were longer, so he would catch up eventually, but Harry could not help but hope that that would come _after _he had thought up some brilliant plan.

Such as...bingo.

Harry leapt to the side, changing directions erratically to disguise his purpose, as looked over his shoulder to ascertain that Tom was following.

"You going to run forever, Harry?"

Harry barked out a laugh, firmly planting his feet on the ground. "As if! Bring it!"

With a nasty sneer, Tom lunged forward – Harry didn't block, nor did he run; he ducked, slipping under Tom's arm, and, for once, thanking the gods for his diminutive height. Spinning sharply around, Tom was sent stumbling backward with the well-timed kick Harry planted in his core – but instead of catching his footing or tumbling to the ground, he froze, or rather, was frozen.

Harry watched with satisfaction Tom fell backward; as the oozing black mass of Voldemort-horcrux began to swallow Tom up, eating at his arms and legs.

Meanwhile, Tom's pale face twisted into an ugly, wretched scowl, as his breathing became laboured with panic, and then fury. "You'll regret this, Harry Potter, I swear! You're mistaken if you think I'll just sit here, quietly – I'll be back, you'll see!" He snarled, trying desperately to free his arms and legs, failing. "You won this time, but that doesn't mean you've defeated me – I'll still be here; I'll _always _be here, waiting for you to grow weak, for you to falter – for you to realize what you really are! Don't think this is the end – I won't let you forget, ever! I'll be here to remind you; in your dreams, in your fantasies, in your nightmares – every time you close your eyes! I –"

Finally, the black ooze engulfed him, and his screams morphed into muffled gurgles. However, Harry was given no chance to relish in his victory or consider Tom's frenzied threats, as a sudden wave of dizziness hit him, and within a moment, sleep took him.

* * *

He was running, as the void closed in on him, waiting to swallow him up. Suddenly, nothingness seemed so frightening…

* * *

It seemed, Harry thought to himself blearily as he blinked his eyes open, immediately shutting them again at the bright light he woke to, that he had gotten himself into the nasty habit of not knowing where he would wake up next.

_How disconcertingly Jean-like_, Harry mentally groaned as he sat up, immediately regretting it as a wave of nausea and vertigo overtook him, and he nearly fell out of bed, only to be caught by two strong, but bony arms.

"Mr. Potter! You shouldn't be up yet!"

Harry squinted, then frowned. "M-Madame Pomfrey? I'm...I'm in the infirmary?"

"That's right, dear," the nurse said, helping him back onto his bed.

"I…how long have I been asleep?" he asked.

"Four weeks now," the old woman said as she tucked the covers back over him.

"Four weeks?" Harry cried incredulously, "Are you serious?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

Harry groaned, and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "no sense of humour…"

"Of course," the elderly matron said, walking off and fetching some potions from a cabinet.

Meanwhile, Harry cast his slowly adjusting eyes around the infirmary surprised to find it completely empty. "Where is everyone?"

"The anti-petrification potion was brewed three weeks ago," the matron said, smiling at him, "You've had my undivided attention."

Harry smirked. "I'm flattered. Then – everyone's alright?"

"Everyone except you," Madame Pomfrey pointed out.

Harry nodded, before he started, a frown overcoming his face. "Luna Lovegood," he said urgently, "What about her?"

"Miss Lovegood was the one that found you; she managed to levitate you halfway down the hall before a prefect found you both, and brought you here. Miss Lovegood was only suffering from acute magical exhaustion, and was discharged a day later."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Did...did she say anything?"

Madame Pomfrey stared piercingly at him for a moment. "No. In fact, she's barely said a word to anyone since – she spends all her time outside of class here." She nodded to the bed next to Harry's. "That's been her bed. She's the only one I've allowed in here – come to think of it, I'm not quite sure why...there's something terribly convincing about that stare of hers."

Harry chuckled, nodding, eyes flickering into the pile of gifts beside his bed, most of which were boxes of chocolate frogs. "Who are those from?"

She cocked an eyebrow.

"Right, stupid question."

The woman smiled briefly. "Most of the chocolate frogs are from Mr. Longbottom; the books are from Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy; the assorted sweets are from your dormmates. Messrs. Fred and George Weasley tried to sneak in a bottle of fire whiskey – they're officially not allowed within fifty metres of the infirmary."

Harry snorted, before sobering. "Umm...so, not that I don't love being here with you Madame Pomfrey, but how long am I going to be stuck here?"

She sighed, handing him a small potion bottle filled with a dreadful looking black substance. "When you were brought in, Mr. Potter, you were suffering from post-cruciatus neuropathic pain, magical exhaustion, evidence of suffocation, and several other symptoms I can say in all honesty that I have never seen before in my very long career – in addition, during your stay here, you suffered from regular seizures and night terrors – truth be told, I'd very much like to keep you here indefinitely."

"I feel fine," Harry insisted.

"Of course you do; as I said, you've had my undivided attention."

Harry put on a pout, but then glanced down at the potion in his hand, sniffing it, and then grimacing. "What _is _this?"

"My own original recipe, an antipsychotic which dually serves as a sleeping draft."

Harry gaped. "An antipsychotic?"

"For the night terrors and violent seizures," Madame Pomfrey said, "Now that you're awake, I'll most likely be forced to release you in less than 72 hours in order to preserve my own mental health – though due to the nature of the potion, you'll have to keep taking it even after you are released – "

"It's highly addictive," Harry interjected.

She nodded. "Such things need to be handled with caution."

"So...if I promise to be cautious, can I leave?" Harry begged with his best charming smile.

The elderly woman rolled her eyes at him. "If you show no signs of relapsing over the next day, I can release you – however, I will expect you to come in every other day as you wean off the potions."

"How long will it take?"

"You should be off of the potions completely by the end of exam period." At Harry's widened eyes, she added, "It's a very unique potion; taking you off it quickly would do more harm than good. In the meantime, you should sleep quite well."

Harry sighed, then frowned as she sat down on his bed. "What?"

"Mr. Potter," she began, "There is the matter of _why_ I had to put you on it in the first place – along with the post-cruciatus, analgesic, and muscle relaxant potions."

"I...how many people know – about my condition, I mean?"

"I've kept it quiet, for now – all anyone knows is that it was serious. Healer-patient confidentiality."

Harry nodded gratefully. "I...if it's alright Madame Pomfrey, I'd prefer not to talk about it. It's over – there won't be any more attacks."

"Yours was the last?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, mine was the last."

* * *

Harry was quite sure it wasn't right that he took such pleasure in listening to Madame Pomfrey tear the newly reinstated Headmaster a new one – he enjoyed it anyway. Madame Pomfrey was due to release him in an hour, and the Headmaster, along with the Minister for Magic and Lucius Malfoy on behalf of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, were insisting that upon his release, he meet with them, much to Madame Pomfrey's displeasure. Thus, Harry spent the next hour attempting to come up with a _very _clever lie about the subject that he had been mentally avoided for the last twenty-three hours – what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets. He only hoped that neither Luna nor Hermione had let anything pertinent slip, or else his plan would be shot to hell.

Thus, an hour later – after being discharged by Madame Pomfrey, box of antipsychotics in hand – he found himself sitting awkwardly in a chair in the Headmaster's office, surrounded by an eerily smiling Headmaster, a practically quivering Cornelius Fudge, and a Lucius Malfoy who wouldn't stop looking at him strangely, making him feel very much like a suspect being questioned on one of those unrealistic crime dramas.

"Harry," Professor Dumbledore began in a gentle voice, "If you're not yet well, we can wait until –"

Harry shook his head. "I'm fine. Let's just get this over with – you want to know what happened in the Chamber of Secrets, right?"

Cornelius Fudge looked like he was about to faint, as he whispered, "So it's true? There really is a Chamber of Secrets?"

Harry shook his head, trying very hard to ignoring the piercing quality of the Headmaster's stare and the dual hungriness and apprehension of Lucius Malfoy's. "No, not really. Just a dusty old cellar in the dungeons. If there is a real Chamber of Secrets, it had nothing to do with what's happened. Anyway, I suppose you'd want to know if I've any idea what caused the attacks, and why they've stopped."

"If you'd please, Harry," Dumbledore prodded softly. "None of those who were attacked have been able to tell us much. One of the unfortunate side-effects of petrification-treatment potions."

There are three tricks to telling a good lie: 1. Making most of it the truth, 2. Believing it yourself, and 3. Showing a little emotion. Harry had mastered all three, and telling himself that nothing could possibly go wrong (well, except if anyone decided to snitch...but hopefully any counter-stories could be chalked up to groundless rumours), he took a deep breath, and began; "It was a cursed object."

All three pairs of eyes widened in surprise; but while Fudge's were tempered with the expected dosage of paling shock, the Headmaster's did not seem all that surprised, while Lucius Malfoy's were tinted with nervousness.

"And as you used the past tense, Harry, I suppose that it is no more?" the Headmaster said with grave eagerness in his voice.

Of course the Headmaster picked up on that. Showtime. "Before you ask, I've no idea how it got into the castle – whoever had it at first probably didn't even realize what it was; it was just a notebook. To the best of my knowledge, it's circulated among the student body quite a bit – it _seems _that it takes control of the victim's body, causing erratic behaviour and delusions, and then it petrifies them; I would think that the victims' memories would be a little off afterward. That's what I gathered, anyway." Harry bit back a smirk as he saw Lucius Malfoy stifle a sigh of relief.

Meanwhile, the Headmaster was nodding slowly, a contemplative, though almost disappointed look on his face. "And how did you come across this information, Harry?"

Harry wore an impressively troubled face. "Luna Lovegood – a week before...well, you know, she started talking about a notebook; pretty soon, she started acting strange, writing in something obsessively. I followed her one night, and watched her...I figured out what was going on, so I stunned her and stole it – I...I tried to destroy the notebook. Apparently that didn't work out too well," Harry said somberly, eyes flickering down to his hands, which he had folded on his lap, before they darted up to the Headmaster. "The notebook, did you..."

The headmaster shook his head, smiling merrily. "We found no trace of anything in the dungeons, and Miss Lovegood, while she didn't say much, told us that 'it is over.' I do believe, Harry, that you have nothing to worry about."

Harry heaved a deep sigh of relief. "Excellent. Do you have any more questions, or may…may I go now?"

The Headmaster chuckled. "I'd hate to keep you from your studying."

"Studying...right...there's that..."

The Headmaster shook his head with a raised eyebrow. "Happy studying, Harry."

Harry quirked a small smile as he rose, nodding to all three men, before exiting the office as quickly as he could. Never, ever again, he told himself as he jogged down the stairs, was he going to let himself be interrogated - all things considered, it wasn't _that _bad, but it was _awkward_.

When Harry reached the bottom of the stairs, however, he was instantly surprised by the presence of Hermione, Neville, Terry, and Michael, who seemed to be waiting for him with varying degrees of impatience.

Immediately, Hermione flew over to him, enclosing him in a tight embrace. "You stupid, stupid boy!" she cried into his shoulder, whilst he instantly stiffened and grimaced.

"Er…Hermione…" Neville said, "He _did _just get out of the infirmary."

Hermione rounded on him. "Exactly! He's been in the infirmary for _four weeks_!" She turned back to Harry. "How could you be so careless?"

Harry scowled at her. "In case you didn't notice, you were in the infirmary too, for a bloody long time, might I add."

Instantly, her face turned bright red. "Well, well...that..."

"Hey, mate," Terry interjected, awkwardly pulling Harry into a one-armed embrace, "All she means to say is, we were all _really _worried – Luna wouldn't talk, and Madame Pomfrey kept everyone but her away, and then the attacks stopped..."

"What _did _happen?" Michael asked, right down to business as usual.

"I'm fine, Michael, thanks for asking," Harry deadpanned, shrugging Terry's arm off and continuing down the corridor with the others plodding along at his side.

Michael rolled his eyes. "I already knew the answer – you're _always _fine, even when you're not."

Harry smirked. "Point."

"So…?"

"So what?"

Michael huffed. "What happened? What caused the attacks and put you in the infirmary for four weeks?"

Harry opened his mouth, hoping that a boastful tale like last year's would come out – and then he realized; there was nothing to say. "I…I don't want to talk about it."

Through the stark silence, Harry could practically hear their gaping.

"You…don't want to talk about it?" Terry said incredulously.

"You're not going to give us anything?" Michael put in, "After four weeks not even knowing if you'll live to the next day, we don't even get to know why?"

Harry really didn't know what to say to that – it really didn't seem all that fair, after all.

But then Neville spoke up. "C'mon, guys – if he doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't have to."

Harry let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Thanks, Neville."

The boy smiled shyly. "Don't worry, I've got your back."

"We all do," Terry interjected, "Don't mind us, Harry – we're just excited to see you. Oi, I bet you're hungry, right?"

Harry chuckled – trust Terry to skip straight to dinner. "Now that you mention it, yeah – I think I could go for about...oh, twenty treacle tarts."

"No you won't," Hermione said suddenly, crossing her arms with a huff. "You've been in a coma for nearly a month – you need your vitamins; lots of greens, and starches, too – look at you, you're all skin and bones!"

"Yes mum," Harry groused, grinning as the others laughed at Hermione's expense. But then he sobered, stopping short.

The others halted as well, staring at him expectantly.

"You guys go on, if that's alright...I...I have to talk to Hermione about something, privately."

The other three boys glanced at each other, and then back at Harry, before nodding and slipping away down one of the corridors.

Harry then turned his eyes to Hermione, who was staring at him expectantly. "You covered for me."

She only blinked.

"About the basilisk," he clarified, "You didn't tell anyone I was looking, about my suspicions."

She blushed slightly, looking at her feet in hesitation, before her eyes returned to Harry's, a renewed fire in them. "You can be a real git sometimes, Harry."

He blinked, taken slightly aback – he was _not _expecting that.

"You never care what anyone thinks, you disregard the rules, you completely lack common sense and decency, and if you weren't in Hogwarts, you'd probably be in a muggle prison by now."

Okay, so she had a point, but still...

"But – you're brilliant," she said, her voice softer this time, "You're insane, but you're utterly brilliant. But not just that...you're completely awful to people you don't like – but you're loyal, too. And you're a good friend...in a sort of screwed up way." She huffed. "I guess, what I'm trying to say, is – I can be awful to you, sometimes, picking at everything you do. And I'm not sorry for it – your behaviour's completely unacceptable…but still, I can't call you a bad person. For some reason, I actually think of you as a _really _good person...with a lot of bad qualities. I just...I wanted you to know that I've got your back – that...that you can trust me. I wanted you to know that your friendship means a lot to me."

Harry just stared at her blankly, as the moments ticked by – he barely registered the meaning of her words. They didn't make any sense; but still, a feeling of warmth welled up in his chest that he couldn't ignore, and he smiled, taking her hand. "Thanks, 'Mione."

"Don't call me 'Mione!" she snapped, glaring has he began to laugh, dragging her toward the Great Hall.

The Epicureans thought that pleasure was the absence of pain; that the happy life was one free of troubles. Harry didn't know if they were right – all he knew was that having Hermione's hand in his, having someone by his side, was far better than the pain that loneliness threatened. The only problem was that he just didn't know if it was enough.

* * *

Harry's entire House, in traditional Ravenclaw fashion, threw an exam-studying party for him the day after his return – complete with party games revolving around exam questions, mini-quizzes, unauthorized experiments, and, as the night wore on, spiked drinks.

Harry had been thrilled; it was his two favourite things combined – mayhem and books. Yes, life was good; exams were starting in a week, giving him just enough time to catch up, if he worked _really _hard, and he was sleeping well, thanks to the potions Madame Pomfrey was _slowly _weaning him off of. In addition, the whole school now saw him as a hero – even though things were being kept quiet, it was the general consensus that it was Harry who had somehow gotten rid of the Heir of Slytherin – and though his friends were quite unhappy that he wouldn't tell them what really happened, their happiness that he was alright outweighed all grievances. His _friends _– whenever he considered the word now, his stomach twisted, and disconcerting insecurity swept over him. Tom's words affected him more than he would have liked – did he actually have friends? Was he just using them? Did all the secrets he kept from them mean that they couldn't truly care about him? Is it possible to care about someone without understanding them? It didn't make any sense, any of it. He hated questions with no right answers...

Luckily, though, he had distractions – lots of them. Not only was he desperately cramming for exams, he was also preparing to execute his final plot of the year: the 'Get Rid of Lockhart for Good' plot. During his time in the infirmary, Myrtle had been kind enough to make sure that no one went near his unfinished veritaserum-like concoction, which he was determined to finish before the night was up.

Thus, one lovely late May night, a couple of days after his release from the infirmary, he was sitting in Myrtle's bathroom, putting the finishing touches on his improvisational potion masterpiece. It had taken nearly a year for him to complete, but finally, it was almost finished; a small batch of veritaserum, seasoned with hallucinogenic herbs and mild neurotoxins.

_Yes_, he thought to himself smugly, _I'm an evil genius._

"Hello Harry Potter."

Startled, he spun around, nearly spilling his potion, eyes widening when he caught sight of the source of the soft, dreamy voice.

Standing behind him, bare-footed and in only a nightgown, was Luna Lovegood, looking perfectly like herself again.

"Luna! Why are you awake?"

She tilted her head to the side, walking over to him and sitting down across from his cauldron. "Because I'm not asleep."

"I should say so," Harry mumbled, gingerly bottling his potion as he stared at her curiously.

"You saved my life," Luna commented abruptly, face blank.

Harry blinked, eyebrows disappearing into his messy fringe. "Yeah, I suppose I did."

"Thank you."

"No problem...'s what any decent person would do."

"But you're not decent."

Harry blinked.

"You're extraordinary," Luna said matter-of-factly, "Like a nargle-ish heliopath."

Harry chuckled. "You too, Luna, you too."

"I am sorry about the headaches. I was trying to warn you, but Tom kept making it come out funny."

Harry instantly sobered, paling slightly. "Yeah – a real bastard, he is."

"But don't tell him that – he's rather sensitive about the subject, I think."

"He would be," Harry said darkly, before grinning, "But it doesn't matter, he's dead now."

But Luna frowned at that. "Why would you think a thing like that?" She pointed to his scar. "He's only sleeping."

Harry's face fell, as he instinctively reached up to rub his scar. "Then…what he said was true…" He let out a shaky breath. "It's true…"

Luna smiled at him obliviously. "But the truth's a funny thing, Harry, you've said so yourself – I wouldn't take it to heart."

Harry looked at her, eyes bleary and glassy, looking almost...shattered. "How can I not, Luna? What he said...you...you don't understand..."

"No, I don't, but that's okay."

"No, it isn't!" he snapped, "I – if _anything _he said is true...I don't know who I am, what I am! Voldemort's been inside me since I was a baby! And now more of him is inside me...how much of me is him? I've got no idea who I am..."

"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a hell of heaven, a heaven of hell. But in the end, it's just the mind."

Harry blinked, freezing. "What?"

"You're Harry Potter, Harry Potter."

Harry sighed despairingly. "But who's Harry Potter?"

Luna smiled. "You, silly."

Harry let out a half choke, half laugh. "You make it all sound so simple, Luna."

"Only because it is."

Harry shook his head with a fond, yet bitter smile. "And yet there's still so much I don't understand."

"Well you're only twelve years old, you can't be expected to know everything...only the Gobbledroofs do," Luna said, rising to her feet. "And you've still got a wrackspurt infestation."

Harry blanched. "Yeah, I've got to do something about."

Luna shook her head, smiling dreamily. "They'll leave when they've done their job."

Harry's lips twitched into a lopsided smirk, eyes wearily drifting off. "Yeah...well, g'night Luna –"

But he stopped short, as the oddest sensation of tremulous warmth came over him, coursing through his body from a single focal point – where soft, warm lips touched his forehead. It was only a split second, but it seemed to last much longer, as something flickered and began to burn in his chest – but it was over all too soon, as Luna's touch vanished, as she skipped off, leaving a wide eyed, crimson faced Harry Potter behind.

* * *

Well, well, well...

Anyway, reviews are welcome :)


	30. Of Consumption and Complications

**Disclaimer**: Even though it's the season of giving, no one gave me Harry Potter. Or anything in here, in fact.

**AN**: Thanks for reading peoples!

* * *

**Chapter 30: Of Consumption and Complications**

It was June the sixth, 1993, and exams were finally OVER. Exam week had passed in a blur, full of frantic cramming and last minute self-doubt, but in hindsight, Harry knew he did great. He found the exams quite easy...almost...redundant – but he didn't want to think of what the reason for that might be.

Only a few days were to pass before the students would be sent home, and Harry was quickly trying to whip up a scheme to keep himself away from the Dursleys in the coming months; on the upside, he was well rested (thanks to Madame Pomfrey's lovely potions, of which he only had a few doses left) and able to think, but on the downside, he was without one of his major sources of inspiration and advice – Jean. After the ordeal in the Chamber, though he tried and tried, Harry could not convince himself that that Jean didn't know about the Horcruxes. Jean had been a Seer, _the _Seer – Harry could only conclude that his older cousin had known _something _about it, but had chosen to say nothing. How could he _not _have known, after all? All those times Jean had shrugged and told him he didn't know the answer with only the slightest flinch; the frowns and raised eyebrows when Harry would talk about his headaches and nightmares...

Harry didn't want to think about it; disgruntled, he didn't want to speak to Jean about the matter, either, so after being discharged from the infirmary, he tossed Jean's portrait in his trunk, and hadn't spoken to him since. In other words, Laini was thrilled to have his undivided attention, and Harry was without his advisor of dastardly schemes (i.e., his anti-conscience).

Currently, though, he was sitting at the Ravenclaw table, enjoying his favourite breakfast of marmalade and sausages, mulling over the very pertinent issue of his summer plans in his mind. Surprisingly, it was after no more than two minutes of deliberation that he reached a mental consensus, and turned to the boy sitting beside him.

"Say, Terry," he said, drawing the sandy-haired boy's attention, "Would you mind doing me a favour?"

"Depends on what it is," Terry stated warily.

Harry nodded sagely. "Don't worry, nothing too bad – I just want you to lie for me."

Terry blanched at that. "To whom?" he said with caution.

Harry blinked. "Well, no one, necessarily, just cover for me if necessary. You see, I've found myself in a bit of a conundrum."

"What sort of conundrum?" Terry asked interestedly.

"Well, you know my lovely relatives whom I so dearly hate?"

Terry nodded.

"Well, I've decided I don't want to spend the entire summer with them."

"Understandable."

"Quite. But see, here's the snag – it has recently come to my attention that there are blood wards around my muggle residence," Harry said, remembering the conversation (which, at the time, seemed quite paranoid in nature to him, but now...) he had had with Cassiopeia Black nearly a year ago.

Terry blinked. "Blood wards? Aren't those, you know, undetectable?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, but it was hinted to me a while back that someone was keeping an eye on me – I…I, er, _asked_ Professor Flitwick about it a few days back, and since he likes me a lot, he may have hinted that one Albus Dumbledore managed to construct some blood wards about the Dursley's residence when he left me with them."

Terry's eyebrows rose. "Is that legal?"

"Hell if I know. Anyway, after obsessively researching the subject, I concluded that the wards around my house must be the type based on how my blood relatives keep track of me – basically, they need to know where I am, or who I'm with. If they're unaware for more than…well, probably about 48 hours, the wards react."

"Brilliant!"

"I know, right? It allows me to do my own thing, go to school, visit friends – anything but get lost or kidnapped or something. Here's the thing, though; I don't want to stay in one place all summer, and I definitely don't want to stay with the Dursleys. That means I'll have to let them know who I'm with, so they think they know where I am, tricking the wards."

"Will that even work?"

He shrugged. "It's worth a try."

Terry nodded slowly. "So you'll tell them you're with me."

"Exactly."

The boy frowned. "But then...if...wait, you're going to run away Harry?" he exclaimed.

Harry scowled. "Sh! Keep it down!"

"That's dangerous, Harry!" Terry whispered.

Harry rolled his eyes. "So is crossing the street – never know when you might get run over…"

"Harry..." Terry groaned.

"I'll be _fine_, Terry."

"Well...do I _have_ to lie?"

"Look, if you don't want to, then I'll find someone else to –"

"No! That's not what I meant – I mean, why don't you actually spend the summer with me?"

Harry blinked.

"It would be awesome!" Terry continued, eyes lit up with excitement, "We're going to Italy, you know – you'd love it there. And I'd bet my parents would be thrilled to meet you too – it'll be great!"

"Like...a family vacation?" Harry asked, stunned.

"Exactly! Well, actually, they're going for work, but...we'll be on vacation..."

"They'd let me come, your parents?" Harry frowned.

"Of course they would! Like I said, they'd be thrilled to meet you! C'mon Harry, it's a great idea, and you know it."

Slowly, a grin morphed onto Harry's face. "Yeah, it really is," he said thoughtfully, "Italy, huh? Thanks Terry, that's a rather brilliant idea."

"Well, it's mutually beneficial after all – I'll have company, and you'll be an ocean away from your dreadful muggle relatives."

Harry smirked. "Couldn't have said it better myself –" But then he stopped, frowning as he cast his eyes about the Great Hall – it was full. All his classmates and housemates had arrived, and the tables were all occupied by their usual residents, with one noticeable exception.

"What is it?" Terry asked curiously.

Harry scowled. "Lockhart's late."

Terry's face scrunched up in confusion. "...and you're...upset about that?"

Harry huffed, beginning to tap his fingers on the table impatiently. "You'll understand in a minute...I hope..." He glared at the door of the Great Hall. "Come on..."

As if on cue, the doors swung open dramatically, and the entire hall was silenced – for there, in the doorway, stood a dishevelled Gilderoy Lockhart; hair sticking up in all directions and dressed in a hideous pink nightgown, the man was sobbing - and down his face, what suspiciously looked like mascara was running. Sniffling, and then bursting out in tears again, he flew past all the stunned students, throwing himself at the staff table and weeping wretchedly.

Immediately, Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet with a concerned frown on his face; but just as he opened his mouth, Lockhart interrupted with a shriek,

"I'm so sorry, mommy!"

Harry's eyebrows rose, as he looked on with interest, rapt attention drawn.

"I didn't mean to, I just _had _to – I'm sorry I stole your dress!" He smashed his head against the table, "And I'm sorry I obliviated Charlie – I just couldn't have him tell! No, no telling!" He shook his head rapidly, "I know, I know, I shouldn't obliviate them all, but I _have _to – _they've _got all the stories, all the fame…and they don't deserve it! I do! I do!" He snarled, twitching violently. "So what if I took your werewolf story! So what if I made you forget you killed it! I'm prettier anyway! No, no, no, no...I don't care if you banished the banshee – so what if you saved my life! I WANT MY STORY! I WANT MY FAME! FORTUNE! IT'S ALL MINE!" He only paused from his barely intelligible rant to glare up at the ceiling. "And you can't take it away!"

Meanwhile, Harry had become quite sure that a great deal of the student body's eyes were about to fall out of their sockets (and even then, they probably wouldn't notice...), and the Hogwarts staff had officially begun to panic.

Ever the collected one, Severus Snape was the first rise to his feet, doing so with a cruel smirk, and beginning in a condescending voice, "Clearly, Lockhart has –"

Wrong move; for as soon as the Potions Master spoke, Lockhart stopped his ranting and turned to him, a look of rapture and tearful admiration erasing the fury on his face. The blonde man, before anyone could react, then leapt over the staff table, pulling Snape into a tight embrace, weeping adoringly,

"Oh, Severus, have I ever told you how beautiful your nose is?" he cried, ignoring the look of fury festering on his victim's face, "And your hair is so shiny too!"

Instantly, Lockhart was thrown into the stone wall by an impressive feat of wandless magic, courtesy of the disgruntled and (however much he would have denied it) highly disturbed Potions Professor. Seeing that Lockhart was out cold, the professors rushed over to attend to him – that is, all except Snape, who was staring at the crumpled figure with undisguised disgust and contempt.

Meanwhile, Harry whistled quietly. "I guess even Professor Snape isn't safe from workplace sexual harassment."

All the second year Ravenclaws turned to him with wide eyes, horror and disbelief shining through.

"You didn't..." Anthony gasped out, clearly at a loss for words..

Harry smirked at him well satisfied with his effort.

Terry looked up at him, horrified, "What _was _that?"

"That, my friend," Harry said, "Is what is known as a 'bad trip.'" He frowned. "Come to think of it, I might of used a _bit _too much LSD*..."

* * *

"To a successful first year of business for Potter and Weasley Esoterics Incorporated!" Harry said merrily with a slight slur, gulping down some more firewhiskey.

It was the day before all the students were to be sent off on the Hogwarts Express; the night, actually. After the feast in the Great Hall, Fred and George Weasley had effectively kidnapped Harry, dragging him down a series of secret tunnels to a place called the 'Shrieking Shack' – reputed to be the most haunted house in Britain, though Harry couldn't sense any disturbed spirits in it – several bottles of firewhiskey in hand. Apparently, a 'success party' for their new business, which had made them a few hundred galleons, was well warranted.

"Oi, mate you said that alrea'y," Fred was slurring beside him, eyes unfocused yet fixed on his half-empty bottle.

"Five times, tha' is," George continued for him, chugging his own bottle of firewhiskey, "Sure you can really hold yer liquor, 'Arry?"

"Yeah, you sor'a loosin' yer mind, 'ere?"

"Can't be," Harry said with a puzzled frown, "W-wero...no, erm, Wernicke-Korset...no, Korsakoff syndrome _occurs_ after _prolonged_ consumption of alcohol…"

"Wha' the hell is that?" Fred asked, his voice high-pitched with puzzlement.

Harry took another sip, then pursed his lips sloppily. "It's, uh...ah...two disorders...ence-encephalopathy, and, and psychosis."

"Ooh," George said with wide, unfocused eyes. "Tha' sounds fun."

"Indeeeed brother mine, indeed," Fred slurred.

"No' really," Harry said with a slightly confused grimace. "Could result in a _coma_…"

"Speakin' o' comas..." Fred began with a raised eyebrow.

"You were in one no' so long ago, mate," George mused.

"Mysteriously..."

"Yeah, a _mysterious _one..."

"It was...was_...wasn't mysterious_," Harry retorted, rolling his eyes. "I' was...routine-er-ish."

"Wha...? 'ow is 'at routine?" George said.

"I dunno," Harry muttered.

"Tell us," Fred dared.

"No," Harry said, crossing his arms.

"Wha'dyou think, George?" Fred queried, "I think he's chicken."

"Cowardly..."

"Spineless..."

"Lily-livered..."

"Oh, shu' the hell up," Harry sneered, "Fine, fine, I'll tell ya…"

"Ooh, ooh, it's storytime," George sang.

"Once upon a time," Harry said with a flourish.

"…a perfect beginning…" Fred cheered giddily.

"Some erm, uh...stuffy-stuff sor'a happened, and I pissed off this ghos' like psycho..."

"…wow…"

"Yeah, an' I killed his diary…"

"Aww…did dat hur' 'is feewings?"

"Ooooh yes, it certainly d-did," Harry said.

"O' course it did; 'Arry 'ere o'viously got the livin' shit beat out o' him…"

"I did not," Harry sneered, "I ate 'im."

"Woah, woah...ewww," George grimaced.

"I know, righ'?" Harry said, wide-eyed. "But then...then he s...showed up in my head..."

"Creepy," the twins commented simultaneously.

"Mhm...and then we...we uh, had this badass showdown, and I kicked 'im real hard and the black goo ate 'im."

Both the twins were staring at him with identical gobsmacked, dazed expressions.

Slowly, Harry managed to put his finger to his lips in a disoriented manner. "But you _can't _tell anyone –"

"We won't," Fred assured him, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, jus' like we won't tell anyone wha' yeh did to Lock'art," George said.

Harry's eyes were wide. "You know abou' tha'?"

"Oooh yeah..."

"It has 'Arry bloody Potter written all over it!"

Harry smirked lazily. "It _was _brilliant..."

The twins nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, finally gave us the, er...opportunietity to raid Lockhart's office..."

George's eyes were wide with shock. "Any idea 'ow many pi'tures o' 'imself tha' man keeps?"

Suddenly, Fred burst out in raucous laughter. "A-a-and the…the p-p-p-p-pink b-b-bonnnett!"

The other two snorted, and joined in his laughter.

Fred was the first to sober, looking at Harry with adoring sincerity. "Seriousously mate, what did yeh dose 'im with?"

Harry frowned thoughtfully. "Weeellll...I's...I, uh, started with your basically basic potions base…and _then _before I added the villy-uh-valerian sprigs, I soaked 'em in ess…essence o' morning glory seed..."

He blinked, his words suddenly being cut off by a loud, guttural sound, closely followed by another one – a pair of snores.

He sighed tiredly, finishing the last of his bottle, not much sooner than his snores joined the chorus.

* * *

"_What _are you wearing?" Padma asked Harry as the group of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw second years plodded down the path to the Hogwarts express.

Harry only groaned, rubbing his sore head. If only he had learnt to make the hangover-cure potion – unfortunately, he had also taken the last of Madame Pomfrey's potion the previous day, so he had nothing to dull the pain with. Hence the pair of black sunglasses completing his ensemble of grey jeans, sneakers, his Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and Laini draped around his neck.

Meanwhile, Hermione was frowning at him. "Where did you get the sunglasses?"

"Transfigured 'em," Harry murmured.

"You alright, mate?" Terry asked.

Harry nodded slowly. "Just tired..."

Hermione's suspicious glare was growing. "You know, it really isn't all that bright out..."

But Harry ignored her, turning to Terry. "I sent the letter to the Dursleys a couple of days ago, so I should be able to leave the station with you."

Terry beamed. "Great! We'll probably apparate to our house in London, and then Floo to the Ministry, and then Rome, I'd imagine." He glanced over at Michael. "You sure you don't want to come?"

Michael scowled. "Of course I _want _to – it's not like I choose to stay home the whole summer and work."

Terry nodded disappointedly, before his face brightened again. "Anyone else want to come to Italy with us?"

"Oh, I'd like to!" Lisa said excitedly.

"Sorry," Harry immediately interjected, "Boys only."

All the girls pouted, with the exception of Hermione, who continued to study Harry keenly.

Terry looked over at the other Ravenclaw boys. "You sure you don't want come?"

Stephen shook his head. "Visiting relatives in Australia…"

"Summer camp," Kevin deadpanned from behind the book he was reading.

Anthony looked distastefully between Harry and Terry. "I'd have to be off my rocker to cross the border with you two as company."

"What about you, Neville?" Terry tried.

"Gran barely lets me off the property," Neville mumbled, "She says I'll go off and break my neck or something if she doesn't watch me close. But Italy would be amazing – I've heard the magical botanical gardens are _huge_..."

"YES! IT SOUNDS AMAZING!"

It was Hermione's voice that had loudly bellowed the phrase, causing everyone to stop short and stare at her in utter bewilderment – except for Harry, who had doubled over in pain.

"What the hell...?" Harry croaked pathetically.

"Aha!" Hermione said, with a triumphant yet disapproving look on her face. "You're hung-over!"

"Are not," Harry moaned, "Your voice is just _so _grating..."

"Are too!" Hermione retorted, ignoring the last part of his comment.

Meanwhile, Michael looked at him, horrified. "You were drinking without us?"

"Yeah," Terry said, disappointed, "I wanted our first time to be together..."

Harry blanched. "That sounded...wrong..."

"You shouldn't be drinking in the first place!" Hermione exclaimed, "You're twelve years old!"

Harry snorted. "I'll be thirteen in a few months..."

"That's not the point!"

"But mooooom," Harry whined, before he winced, holding his head as they stepped onto the train.

"You alright Harry?" Neville asked concernedly.

Harry didn't respond at first. "I dunno...yeah, I'm fin. Listen – I'm gonna go find somewhere quiet to sleep this one through."

Hermione nodded. "That's probably wise."

Harry grinned stupidly, feigning adulation. "Hermione just called me wise..."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I called your _actions_ wise. They _don't _mean the same thing."

"Damn," Harry chuckled, waving to the others. "See you in London. And if you see Draco, tell him not to terrorize any first years without me. Or prefects, for that matter..."

It did not take long for Harry to find an empty compartment, and after modifying it with a choice selections of charms and wards, he plopped his bag on the ground and lay down across one of the seats, setting Laini on the other. The headache made it hard to get comfortable, but it was nothing compared to what he had suffered through a few months prior; all it took was the briefest recollection of the agony he had felt to encourage him to ignore the amount of pain he was in. Fortunately, it did not take long for him to drift into an easy slumber.

But his slumber was not peaceful.

Almost as soon as the darkness overtook him, he found himself sucked into a familiar scene; waking into a disorientating mass of swirling black formlessness – dizzying, yet peaceful; cold, yet comfortable. His mind – a frigid, black, empty place...and yet, he could not help but feel that he wasn't alone.

Spinning around, he was shocked to find the formless darkness eroded away, and in its place a small, cozy room, a fire blazing merrily in the hearth at the other end. The room smelt strangely, and looking down at his feet, Harry immediately knew the reason – for enveloping his feet, in a vast puddle painting the floor crimson, was blood...so much of it, a river. Shivering, Harry forced his eyes upward, to observe the picture before him, even more ghastly and terrifying than the one at his feet – a tea party of sorts. A small table sat in the centre of the room, and on it were a porcelain teapot and three teacups filled with a thick red liquid, and a small try, holding a few pastries, garnished with...no...it couldn't be, two..._eyeballs?_

But what was most disconcerting were the chairs – three high-back black velvet chairs, seated around the table. One sat to the side, and was empty, clearly waiting for him; another had its back toward him, obstructing his vision; and upon the third, facing him, was seated the last person he wanted to see – Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"Why hello, Harry," Tom said with a pleasant smile, dark eyes glimmering furiously in the firelight. "How nice of you to come."

It took every measure of self-control and assurance that Harry had in him not to flinch or reveal the anxiety that was building up inside of him. "Tom."

Tom smirked at him. "Come, sit down, I've been waiting for quite a while."

Before he could analyze exactly what was happening, Harry found himself walking slowly toward the empty chair, barely managing not to cringe under Tom's piercing stare.

"I do wonder what potions they were giving you – to separate you from your unconscious so…" Tom was saying, but Harry ignored him in favour of attentively observing the third chair beside him, whose occupant remained hidden and silent.

"Who's sitting there?" Harry asked suddenly, stopping in his tracks when his heart twisted inside of him, when he caught sight of a wisp of blonde hair.

Tom quirked an amused eyebrow. "Why don't you come and see?"

Involuntarily, Harry closed his eyes as he stepped forward, practically able to feel the foreboding image burn through his eyelids.

"Open your eyes, Harry," Tom prodded softly.

Exhaling shakily, Harry slowly managed to ease his green eyes open; barely able to keep from snapping them shut again as they took in what was before him. Eye sockets empty and weeping crimson, along with nose and ears; hands drenched with and dripping blood; white silk dress painted; and throat slit, no, scratched out, muscle and skin, and veins shredded and ripped into wet, scarlet-oozing strings and ribbons – Luna Lovegood.

Suddenly, Harry felt himself unable to breath, unable to move, desperate nausea and disgust building in his core.

"Harry," Tom's soft, smooth voice suddenly broke the sickening silence.

Wide eyed and terrified, Harry turned to face him, nearly gagging as Tom picked up one of the teacups and sipped the thick crimson fluid.

"Come, sit," Tom continued with a coy smile, "Let's talk about...oh, I don't know - love."

Harry pinched his eyes shut, desperately tensing and wishing, _wake up, wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!_

Jolting, his eyes snapped open, and he found himself lying on the floor, covered in cold perspiration on the floor of his compartment on the Hogwarts express. Slowly sitting up, Harry cringed as he felt a sharp pain rip through his head, his scar beginning to burn – through his pain he barely managed to sit up and lean back against the door of the compartment. He frowned when he felt a strange wetness on his face, and groaned when he reached up and felt the sticky liquid running down his down it – his scar was bleeding.

Muttering, _"Episkey_," to clear the bleeding, he reached for his B3, rummaging around inside it until he found what he was looking for – a small wooden box, oak with iron hinges, shackled by a single latch. When he reached for the lock, though, he hesitated – he was so sore, so drowsy, so tired...he needed to sleep. But he knew Tom would be waiting, unless he did something to bury his face, muffle his speech.

_I've got no choice_, he told himself as he flipped the box lid open, carefully removing one of the small vials inside and holding it up, observing the oily, pearl-coloured liquid swirling inside as he swallowed the sickening trepidation in his stomach. With one quick motion, he downed the vial of homemade sleeping potion, pointedly ignoring the niggling, anxious voice objecting in the back of his mind as he drifted into a hazy oblivion.

* * *

_"Purple Haze all around,_  
_ Don't know if I'm coming up or down._  
_ Am I happy or in misery?"_

* * *

*Yeah, so, about that last line in the Lockhart scene; Harry wouldn't have been able to find LSD at Hogwarts - he just concocted a powerful hallucinogenic drug out of poignant herbs and various opioid-like substances he stole from Snape's cupboard, no doubt. In my mind, I envisioned him testing it on rats...ooohhh...I smell an outtake...

* * *

Well that's it, the end of year two. As I did with year one, I'm going to take a little while to edit what I've written so far, before moving on to year three. To look forward to: a trip to Italy with the Boots, Sirius Black escaping from prison, research into Horcruxes, and some character development. Without the whole chamber of secrets thing, I'm hoping the next year will be much quieter, and I'll have the opportunity to explore what's happening between the various primary and secondary characters...yeah, we'll see how that goes...maybe I'll even strike up some melodrama (for comedy's sake, of course).

Anyway, I humbly thank you all for reading thus far; it is my honour, joy, and pleasure to entertain you all - Happy Christmas!


	31. Of Trips and Trouble

**Disclaimer**: Don't own Harry Potter, don't own Terry Boot, don't own anything in Rome...

**AN:** Wow…year three already! So, sorry this took so long to come; I was editing the last 15 Chapters, and it took longer than I originally thought it would...  
Anyway, this chapter is, for the lack of a better word, a 'filler episode' with some fascinating results. I'm on vacation, Harry's on vacation...so yeah, I'm a bit lazy right now :)

* * *

**Chapter 31: Of Trips and Trouble**

Harry loved Italy; it was filled to the brim with all the good things in life – food, sweet food, beautiful music, lovely weather, and undisguised artistic opulence. It would be perfectly wonderful, he thought, if the whole world was like Italy.

Harry quite liked the Boots as well – Mr. and Mrs. Boot seemed to be very polite and decent people, like the Grangers, who he had met several times last summer; but unlike the Grangers, the Boots were more reserved and were far less intrusive in their conversations over dinner. They asked Harry about his education, his grades, his hobbies, and his relationship with Terry - no awkward questions about what happened to his parents, about who he lived with, or about his relatives. Harry could not help but consider that their cautious intuition came as a result of their delicate occupations as an ambassador and a lawyer.

Spaghetti the first night, and pizza the next – after that, Mr. and Mrs. Boot spent their afternoons and evenings at business dinners and fundraisers, leaving Harry and Terry in their posh hotel suite with a couple of house elves and a lot of money.

The hotel was a magically hidden extension of a muggle one – the first six floors made up the muggle hotel, an lavish, luxurious mansion; the next six were under powerful muggle-repelling wards, reserved entirely for wizards. The hotel, being located in the Piazza della Minerva and the Boots' suite being on the twelfth floor, had a clear view of the Pantheon, along with several pizza parlours and gelato shops, which the boys regularly sent the house elves down to fetch snacks from. For the first week, Harry and Terry managed to keep themselves busy with the small selection of books and games they had brought along, under the steady observation of Gelly and Twish the house elves. However, as the second week wore on, boredom began to set in; it was then that Harry coaxed Gelly into procuring a muggle television and several videos.

As Harry predicted, Terry cried at the end of _E.T._, screamed several times during _The Exorcist_, met _Star Wars _with pure awe and full-blown fanboy-ism, and greatly enjoyed the Monty Python films. At first, the house elves had been quite terrified by the electron-spitting contraption, and Mrs. Boot had been bewildered and disapproving – but at Harry's insistence, the muggle device was quickly accepted, and served as a splendid means for keeping Harry and Terry out of trouble and poor Gelly and Twish from becoming test subjects for one of the odd experiments that were bound to evolve in Harry's bored brain. But good things never last.

At first, Harry just tried to blatantly escape from the suite – his first move was to pick the lock of the front door…but he ended up getting his hand burnt (apparently, Terry had tried and failed the same thing years ago) – and after getting a long tag-team lecture from Gelly and Twish, he promised not to do it again. That, of course, was a lie – it was only after getting egged while trying to climb out the window, being tarred and feathered while trying to sneak out the vents, and eventually being sedated did he finally give up, resigned to watching reruns.

* * *

It was nearly July, and Harry and Terry were splayed out on the suite floor, a half-eaten pizza keeping them company as they watched the twenty-fifth _Doctor Who _season for the second time in a row.

"You know," Harry drawled suddenly, "When you start watching the same things over, and over, and over again, it means that you should really be doing something else."

Terry glanced away from television briefly. "Like what? There's nothing _to_ do."

"The -"

"Sh! I like this part!"

Harry groaned, glaring at the television and tapping his fingers impatiently until Terry's favourite scene was over.

Terry paid no mind, though; eyes still fixed on the television.

Harry cleared his throat. "I said, I'm _bored_."

Terry sighed. "And I said, there's nothing to do."

"There's _always _something to do."

Terry rolled his eyes, which were still fixed on the television. "We're stuck in this room, Harry."

"See, that's what I don't understand – this is a vacation…aren't we supposed to, you know, go out, see new things, have fun…?"

"This is how it always is," Terry sighed, "They're busy for a few weeks, and then we go out and do something – maybe go see the museums in Florence, go swimming at a beach in Sicily – and then at the end, they drag me along to one of their parties, before we spend the rest of August in England."

Harry frowned musingly. "How long until the 'do something' part?"

Terry shrugged. "I dunno – a week, maybe two…"

Harry pursed his lips. "That's too long..." Harry groaned.

"What do you mean, too long? We're stuck in here! Nothing to do about it!"

"Terry, Terry, Terry," Harry said, shaking his head. "We're Ravenclaws, the smartest sort of people on the planet – if we can't figure a way out of this, we don't deserve to call ourselves Ravenclaws, let alone teenage boys."

Terry finally tore his eyes away from the television to frown confusedly at Harry. "Sorry…I'm not following here…"

Harry smirked. "Watch and learn, my friend. Twish!"

The bug-eyed house elf popped into the room with a cheery smile on her face. "Yes, master Harry!"

"Thanks for showing up so promptly," Harry said pleasantly, "You see, I'm hungry."

Twish's eyes travelled to the half-pizza sitting on the floor.

"_Really _hungry," Harry amended. "For something new…something…special."

Twish nodded eagerly. "What is master Harry wantin'?"

Harry tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well…some pizza quattro formaggi from…Florence, how about; three boxes of gelato, orange, bubblegum, and banana flavoured; a Panini, exactly five point two four six six devilled eggs, and some ravioli – hold the marinara, use nutella instead…" He glanced at Terry. "And some crème brulèe, preferably from Paris. Ooh! And some apfel strudel from Berlin. Or Munich."

Twish's eyes were wide, along with Terry's. "Oh my, master Harry! Yous a wantin' many, many things!"

Harry nodded. "And it has to be absolutely perfect, Twish, so take your time."

Twish bobbed her head up and down enthusiastically. "Oh yes! Yes master Harry! Twish will do that!"

And with that, she snapped her fingers and disappeared.

Terry turned to Harry with a glare. "Nutella ravioli? And Paris!"

Harry nodded. "Yeah – killing two birds with one stone; get one elf out of here, and make sure we've got snacks when we get back."

"Back from where?" Terry asked warily.

Harry shrugged. "I dunno yet."

Terry shook his head. "We can't go anywhere, Harry – Gelly's still here. He won't let us go anywhere."

"He can't stop us if he's not here."

"He'd never leave," Terry objected, "Not when he knows Twish is gone."

Harry smirked. "Unless he _has _to leave."

Terry looked at him exasperatedly. "And how will you manage that?"

"You're good at panicking, aren't you, Terry?"

He blinked. "What?"

"You're going to have to be _very _convincing."

"Uh…"

Harry nodded. "Well, at least you've got the dumb puzzled look down." And with that, he collapsed down onto the floor, making sure to swing his arm out and knock the end table over as he began to make loud choking and wheezing sounds.

Wide eyed, Terry froze for a moment, before he caught sight of Harry's glare, and shouted, "Gelly!"

Instantly, the house elf popped into the room, tennis-ball-like eyes bulging when they perceived Harry's struggling form.

"Help!" Harry rasped out.

Gelly frantically turned to Terry, sputtering as he tried to form words. "What?" and "How?" were among the intelligible sounds.

Meanwhile, Terry was holding his head as a suspiciously ill-timed headache began to tear at his skull, trying to come up with something clever, and wishing he had a (temporary) psychic connection with Harry. "He…uh…measles! The measles!"

"What's a measle!" Gelly cried, tugging on his ears as Harry continued to struggle at his feet.

"It...it's a muggle disease! It's...very, _very _dangerous – Harry...Harry could die if he doesn't get help soon!"

Gelly looked between Terry and Harry with tearful eyes. "But…but, but Gelly must take care of master Harry! Master Harry musn't die! Not under Gelly's care!"

Terry nodded rapidly. "So, so we've got to make him better!"

"But how?"

Terry grimaced. "A...ah...uh...oh! A, uh, guru, from the Himalayas can cure it...I think..."

"A guru…from the Himalayas…" Gelly repeated unsurely between panicked pants.

"Yeah…yeah!" Terry said, gaining confidence, "If we don't want Harry to die, you have to go to the Himalayas and fetch a guru…"

"Yes! Yes! Gelly will do that! Gelly will save master Harry!"

The house elf popped off, and instantly, Harry burst into hysterical laughter.

"Brilliant, Terry, brilliant!"

Terry grimaced. "Harry…"

"Bloody hell, you should be an actor, Terry!"

Terry's eyebrows rose. "Uh-huh. What now?"

"Well, _now,"_ Harry said, grinning, "We're free – we can do _whatever _we want."

Terry frowned, but all of a sudden, as though blessed with enlightenment, his eyes went wide. "…whatever…?"

"No teachers, no house elves, no parents – no grown ups at all; just you, me, and an entire city full of food, music, art, and really hot girls."

"You're right..." Terry's eyes lit up. "We can do whatever we want!"

Harry smirked and leapt to his feet, grabbing his B3 and kicking the vent in the wall open. "The path to freedom, my friend."

Terry grinned and ran over to the opening in the wall, beginning to climb in before Harry stopped him.

"What?" Harry asked with a raised eyebrow, "No panicking? No arguments or chickening out?"

Terry looked at him with wide, cheery eyes. "I think," he said, "The adrenaline is affecting my judgement."

Harry blinked. "Fair enough."

* * *

It took some navigating, but eventually, the boys managed to fall down a lengthy shaft, all the way into the muggle laundry room – luckily, their fall was broken by a pile of folded bedsheets (folded no longer by the time the boys left). Once out of the laundry room, it wasn't hard to find the back door – and bursting through with the sort of energy that comes with the thrill of escaping captivity, Harry and Terry found themselves stumbling down a cobblestone walkway in a slender alleyway, brick and stone looming up on both sides, yet not quite managing to swallow the heat of the new summer sun. The alleyway deviated to a sharp left for only a few more feet, before opening up to the bustling piazza, where they were met with a flurry of noise and smells and light.

Harry grinned over at Terry. "Let's start with some ice cream."

Terry grinned back and nodded, glancing over at the gelato shop a ways down the cobbled street. "I'll race you!"

And with that, he took off, dodging pedestrians as Harry let out an annoyed stream of curse words behind him, shouting about the head-start being unfair even as he flew past Terry with a smirk.

By the time they both reached the gelato shop, Terry arriving a few seconds after Harry, they were both desperately gasping for air, red faced, sweaty, drawing the disdainful attention of more than one scowling patron.

Once he'd regained his composure, Harry stood upright and looked at Terry smugly. "You lose, you buy."

Terry did, grudgingly, buy two double-scoop cones, nearly dropping his own serving in outrage when Harry reminded him afterward that never did they make an agreement prior to their race that the loser would have to buy the winner's ice cream. Surprisingly, neither boy found themselves especially inclined to argue or mock each other about it, and with their double fudge and marmalade-strawberry cones, were mostly silent as they lapped at their gelato with content smiles on their faces, trudging down the crowded streets, weaving through the crowds.

They had not yet finished their snack when they came upon the bustle surrounding the Trevi Fountain, and spotting an unoccupied place on the steps, ran over and sat down beside each other, their two sets of eyes, one emerald and one caramel, trained on the dancing droplets pouring into the the fountain water and the wet marble stone-work shimmering in the afternoon sun.

"I wonder, if we stole all the euros at the bottom of the fountain, how rich we'd be," Harry commented after some time, licking his fingers as he finished off the last of his cone.

Terry glanced at him, evidently surprised that Harry was the one who had broken the easy, comfortable silence, and then shrugged. "I dunno. Really rich, I guess. We don't exactly need the money though…"

Harry snorted. "I know _that_. Just speculating, is all."

"Speculating?" Terry idly queried.

"Yeah, you know, imagining things – I'm really good at that."

Terry's eyebrows rose. "Oh, I know – you had us convinced for a whole year that _Star Wars _was really history. In fact, I think Stephen, Lisa, and Mandy still believe it..." He shook his head. "I still can't believe I fell for that…"

Harry smirked at him, mischief, along with the bright sunlight reflected in the fountain, dancing in his green eyes. "You'd be surprised, Terry, what you fall for."

Terry grimaced. "Now, that's not fair! You're an exceptionally good liar – you can fool anyone…"

Harry smiled smugly. "That I can."

Terry sent him an annoyed look, offset only slightly with a faint visage of concern. "But you know Harry, just because you can fool anyone about anything, doesn't mean you can fool everyone about everything."

Harry looked up at him, meeting his eyes with amusement belying his sharp curiosity. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Terry pursed his lips. "I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I said I know what happened in the Chamber of Secrets?"

Harry snorted. "As if."

"And you really won't tell me what happened?"

"Nope." He popped the 'p' with a satisfied smirk.

Terry paused, looking immensely pleased for a moment, before his face sobered entirely, and he put forth cautiously, "And…if I said I knew about the nightmares?"

Harry froze, but for only a second. "What nightmares?"

Terry bit his lip, staring at his hands, fidgeting in his lap. "You do know, Harry, that the Dreamless Sleep potion, and every variation known to wizards, is highly addictive, right? Taking it every second day for an extended period…" He looked back up at Harry's now cold, impassive face. "Don't even try to deny it – the last four weeks, every other night like clockwork, you down a potion once you think I'm asleep. From the colour and the smell it leaves, and the way you just drop right after...it's obviously a sleeping draft."

Harry glared, perhaps with more harshness than he intended. "You haven't told anyone." It wasn't a question.

Terry shook his head urgently. "And I won't. But Harry, whether you need it or not, it can't be healthy..."

Harry turned away from him to glare at the gurgling fountain.

"You know, Harry..." Terry sighed exasperatedly, scratching the back of his head, "Damn it, I'm not like Hermione – I can't lecture you, and if I did, I know you wouldn't listen. It's just...it's just...it helps to talk about it, you know? Sometimes the nightmares go away when you talk about them –"

"There's nothing to talk about," Harry cut in sharply.

Terry looked extremely put off by that answer. "I may not be a bloody genius like you, but I'm not stupid! Since you came to Hogwarts, you've tossed and turned in your sleep, and this year, it got worse – _every time_ you slept, Harry, it looked like you were in pain, until you started going to the infirmary. And then, after the whole Chamber of Secrets, it stopped, and I was _really _happy for you…"

"Good for you," Harry bit out.

"But now...at first, for the first week, you only took the potion every third day...and on the last night, you would start to toss and turn in your sleep – and you'd say things."

Harry's eyes widened, and his whole body tensed.

"You talk…about your mother. And about someone named Tom."

At that, Harry instantly whitened, and Terry looked at him concernedly. He swallowed his nervousness and continued to press.

"There's no one named Tom at Hogwarts..."

"Not anymore," Harry whispered.

Terry frowned. "What did you say?"

Harry, lost in a torrent of nervousness, indignance, fear, and nauseating unease, didn't even hear himself mutter, "Tom Marvolo Riddle..."

Terry blinked. "That name..."

But any train of thought he was started on was instantly broken with the eruption of a startled cry from Harry, who leapt to his feet, glaring at the hot coffee on his leg and then at the culprit responsible for spilling it on him.

It was a man standing halfway down the steps, tall and dark haired, in an expensive suit, who glared right back at Harry. "Attenzione, ragazzio!"

"What the hell?" Harry cried angrily. "Attenzione my arse! A little young to be going blind, isn't it, you bastard?"

Terry couldn't decide whether or not he was relieved or annoyed that Harry's attention and therefore temper was directed elsewhere. Nevertheless, he reached up and grabbed Harry's wrist, pulling him down into his seat, and shouting to the man, "Scusi, signore!"

The man only sniffed and turned away.

Terry sighed in relief, before turning to Harry. "Come on, mate, it was an accident."

But Harry, disgruntled and in a perfectly terrible mood, simply ignored him and continued to glare at the man, who was then standing with his back towards them, chatting up a young blonde woman sitting at the ledge of the fountain. And that was when it happened.

It turned out that Harry's glare had some _real _venom behind it – because suddenly, the man's pants flew down to his ankles just as he was about to step forward, causing him to trip, sending him face first into the Trevi fountain. Harry could not help but smirk when, as the man scrambled out of the fountain (minus his pants), he sported a bright red hair colour identical to the hue of the boxers he was wearing.

Terry looked between a triumphant Harry and the growing frenzy about the fountain in horror. "Harry…" He was becoming far too accustomed to the resigned despair he heard in his own voice.

But any fearful, disappointed, or partially amused lecture that was about to spew from his lips was erased, as he froze when he saw number of uniformed men rushing into the piazza, though seemingly unnoticed by the horde of tourists snapping pictures and panicked locals. A couple of the uniformed men pulled out wands, but paused, when one of the others shouted something in Italian and pointed toward a wide eyed Terry and Harry. Instantly, both boys scrambled to their feet.

"The Italian Aurors!" Terry exclaimed with a frantic look in his eyes. "What should we do!"

Seeing the uniformed men making their way toward them, Harry didn't hesitate to grab Terry's wrist. "Run!"

And with that, the two boys took off, ducking and dodging with at the hastiest pace they could physically manage. As they burst out of the crowd and dove down a length alleyway, Harry glanced behind him, and seeing no one following them, allowed himself to smirk. As it turned out, he jinxed it.

Not a moment later, three loud cracks reverberated through the alleyway, and in an instant, Terry and Harry found themselves hopelessly trapped.

Harry sighed nonchalantly. "Well shit…"

* * *

"I can't believe I'm in jail."

Harry glanced over at Terry, who was staring at the bars in front of them in utter despair. "They can't hold us," he said lightly, "We're minors, and British citizens. And it was only accidental magic."

"Some accidental magic," Terry groused, "You pulled his pants down! And changed his hair colour! Maybe, _maybe _if it was just one, they'd believe you - but two highly concentrated events occurring between the same loci? It just doesn't happen."

"I never drew my wand. They can't prove anything."

Terry sighed. "But they're not stupid, Harry..."

"Most people are pretty stupid," Harry argued, "You'd be surprised. We'll be out any minute now, I can feel it."

"Right."

"They can't hold us!" Harry insisted.

"They didn't seem to care."

Harry shrugged.

"I can't believe I'm in jail."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You already said that."

Terry reached out to touch the steel bars, wincing as the charm on them zapped him, leaving an angry red mark on his finger. "Mum and dad are gonna kill me."

"Nah – they love you too much. I'm the one who's screwed. They'll think I corrupted you, or something…"

"You have," Terry said sourly.

Harry smirked. "Oh, come on, it was fun, admit it. And now you've got a story to tell that will have Anthony spinning."

Terry smiled fondly. "Yeah, I guess so." He grimaced. "But there's still my parents to deal with…" He moaned. "What am I going to tell them?"

"The truth, and an explanation or two would be nice. Followed by an explicit apology."

Both boys spun around to find Mrs. Boot entering the small hallway, stopping in front of their cell and whispering a passcode. The bars slowly disintegrate.

Terry had tears in his eyes as he leapt off the bench he was sitting on and threw himself at his mother. "Thank you _so much _for not letting us rot in here mum!"

Harry smiled. "Yeah, that's very cool of you, Mrs. Boot. Thanks."

The woman quirked an unamused eyebrow, pushing Terry away and straightening out her robes. "Don't thank me yet – believe me, I might have left you in here for the night, if it weren't for the meeting with the Russian ambassador I have in the morning. And lest you forget; if, _if _I decide to keep this from your father, Merlin knows he doesn't need anything else on his mind right now, I can still make your lives miserable without him knowing. And if I tell him…well, then we can make your lives miserable together."

Both boys grimaced, suddenly pale and fearful of what punishment awaited them.

* * *

Mrs. Boot came from a wealthy pureblood family – but clearly, integrity was far more important to her than image and station (she had been a Hufflepuff, apparently), and did not think her son was above a bit of menial labour. Needless to say, the hotel chef was pleased by the knowledge that he would have two unpaid labourers for the next two weeks, Mrs. Boot was pleased that her son and his 'hooligan best friend' would be memorably punished without putting extra stress on her husband, and Terry and Harry were horrified at the prospect of spending their days waiting tables, washing china, and cleaning grime out of corners.

The night after the altercation, after they had been dealt out their punishment, both boys were exhausted, depressed, defeated, and therefore very, very quiet. Terry didn't bother to say anything when Harry downed his bottle of sleeping potion - though he did send an upset glare his friend's way; a glare so piercing that Harry was compelled to answer with a defensive 'it's diluted' - and Harry was so tired that combined with the effects of his potion, as soon as his head hit the pillow, he drifted into a dreamless slumber. He certainly didn't notice Terry get out of bed and grab a notepad out of his bag, idly scribbling on it the subject that was niggling with strange familiarity at the back of his brain: like a puzzle with a hidden but obvious solution, or a brain-teaser that he just couldn't put down, or a code he was sure he knew how to break:

_TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE_

_T OOO MM A RR V LL I DD E_

_A DD E I LL MM OOO RR T V_

_(A E I OOO) (DD LL MM RR T V)_

_(I AM)? (E OOO)(DD LL M R T V)_

A pause.

"Oh _Merlin…_"

_I AM LORD VOLDEMORT_

* * *

So...yeah, Terry's still a Ravenclaw; even though I present him as a bit slow sometimes, he's brilliant with puzzles.

Anyway, third year begins - any thoughts, hopes, dreams, or comments you'd care to share?


	32. Of Dances and Daring Feats

**Disclaimer:** As of my birthday, I own the most gorgeous pair of leather lace up boots. But still not Harry Potter.

**AN:** Ok, so I am so, _so _sorry – I could make up so many excuses of why this took so long (most of them to do with work and school), but that would involve an exchange too close to bitching and whining…soooo…  
Suffice it to say I do apologize for my tardiness, and part of the reason for this involves rethinking my plot for 3rd year…

So without further ado:

* * *

**Chapter 32: Of Dances and Daring Feats**

"You wanna dance?"

Harry turned to face Terry, horror, incredulity, and ridicule fighting for dominance on his face. _"What?"_

Terry shrugged uneasily. "Well, we're just standing around, and you said that none of the girls are pretty enough to dance with…"

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "And you think _you_ are?"

Terry turned bright red in an instant. "No! I just meant, er, looks shouldn't really matter if it's two blokes and all…"

Harry sent him a flat look. "All you've done is presented a paradox – you see, the only way, I figure, that two blokes would dance is if they fancied each other, in which case each _would _care what the other looks like. If they didn't care, I don't suppose they'd be in a position to dance with each other in the first place. Either way, I don't swing that way, Terry."

Terry's face grew impossibly redder. "That's not what I meant! I just, uh, argh!" He huffed. "I'm bored! And I like dancing, even if it has to be with you!"

Harry mock pouted.

Terry sent his friend a pleading look. "All we're doing is standing here in the corner while there's a bloody party going on –"

"A party we never wanted to go to in the first place."

"- while we're all dressed up in our new dress robes –"

"Bloody scratchy things should burn in hell…"

"- it seems like such a waste! And I don't even want to think about what will happen if you keep on drinking all that champagne!" Terry snapped, snatching away the most recent glass Harry had just picked up.

Harry blinked at him, plastering a look of shock on his face. "Oh my god."

"What?" Terry asked, suddenly alarmed.

"Hermione, what are you doing here! I thought I said no girls allowed!"

Terry scowled at him, placing the champagne glass back on the table. "Shut up."

"It's my birthday. I can say what I want."

Terry sighed exasperatedly. "And all you want to do on your thirteenth birthday is sit in a corner, watching people dance and drinking champagne?"

Harry tapped his chin thoughtfully. "You're right Terry, that is kind of lame…"

It was 8 o'clock in the evening of July 31st, 1993 – Harry's thirteenth birthday. After the incident in Rome, he and Terry had, indeed, been stuck as the hotel chef's kitchen help; though Harry was used to the sort of work that was handed to him, Terry wasn't, and the combination of doing chores whiles on a vacation and Terry's whining was enough to nearly drive him insane. When the punishment was finally over in two weeks' time, though, that was when the real vacation began.

They spent a little more than a week on the coast, staying in a small cottage and and enjoying a private beach – the weather was warm and pleasant, and Harry and Terry were gleeful at the prospect of not only being free from the menial duties their punishment had piled upon them, but also having their own little portion of the Mediterranean Sea to explore and gallivant about in. The week after that, Mr. and Mrs. Boot visited friends in Venice, leaving the two boys to their own devices. Though they managed to keep from getting arrested again, they did not leave Venice before Harry's bad luck had a chance to kick in – in the midst of arguing animatedly with Terry over whose Venetian mask was cooler, he managed to lose his balance and somehow fall into the Grand Canal. The experience was rather…disgusting.

Florence and its museums had been the next stop, and was to be the last stop – the Boots had been invited to some posh ball, and Mrs. Boot, as Terry had predicted, had insisted that Harry and Terry tag along. But it wasn't just that – oh no. Harry had been stuffed into a set of black dress robes, and Terry into a matching outfit of blue. However, this unfortunate situation wasn't without its merits; one upside, Harry thought, was that he was finally able to wear his red bowtie (much to Mrs. Boot's chagrin). Terry had only looked at him oddly; Harry didn't care though. He knew the bowtie didn't exactly look _good_ (i.e., dashing, fashionable, or suave), but he still liked it. It was just one of those things…

The second upside had suddenly become evident – the ball was hosted in an enormous mansion, crafted of marble stonework which, when not rising up sheerly with stalwart smoothness, crept and crawled and twisted and danced about, forming alcoves, stairways, halls, and arches – the mansion was fashioned as a white forest of stone, and Harry could not help but wonder what sort of secret passages and hidden rooms were buried within the artistically formed domicile.

He grinned at Terry. "An adventure. I should really like to have an adventure for my birthday."

Terry blanched. "What sort of…adventure?"

Harry's grin grew as he grabbed Terry's hand. "I dunno yet." And with that, he took off, tugging Terry behind him, glancing about the room rapidly, looking for some way to escape the stuffy company of dancers and gossipers and whatever other sorts of people attend balls. It was when they came across an archway opening up to a balcony that he stopped and smiled – the smile morphing into frown when he felt Terry collide into his back.

He rolled his eyes, and then whirled about to face Terry. "Grace, Terry, and stealth. The bread and butter of an adventurer."

Terry frowned confusedly. "…ok then," he said slowly, following Harry through the doorway and onto the balcony – quiet and deserted, seeming to occupy a tranquil space entirely separate from the vivacious gathering within. His frowned deepened as he watched Harry pace back and forth on the balcony. "Are you…looking for something in particular?"

"How very perceptive of you," Harry remarked, a smile breaking out on his face as something caught his eye. "Follow me."

And with that, he clambered up onto the writhing, yet stalwart form of the stone balustrade of the balcony, taking a moment to balance himself before he shakily stood and reached up to take hold of one of the protruding mouldings of the mansion's exterior.

"What are you doing!" Terry hissed.

Harry looked down at him with a perfectly innocent countenance, tempered with a 'what are you, stupid?' expression. "Climbing. Idiot."

"I believe the implied question there was 'for what purpose?'" Terry gritted out.

Harry, who had kept on climbing, shifting from footholds and handholds, and was now several metres from where he had started, paused and shrugged. "That's what adventurers do, I suppose – climb."

Terry's face was a befuddled mixture of incredulity and panicked concern as Harry carefully clambered up onto a ledge, which signified the beginning of the next floor of the building, slowly removing his hand from the handhold he had used to lift himself up. He waved it, attempting to call on his unpracticed wandless magic and causing the window that sat but a few feet away to rattle, but nothing more. Frowning, Harry waved his arm again, this time slowly, laboriously, causing the window to begin to inch open. Once a sufficient opening had been made, he grinned and clambered over to it. But his joy was interrupted by Terry's panicked whisper,

"Harry! You can't do that! That's _trespassing."_

Harry glanced down at him and rolled his eyes. "Duh."

Terry's expression turned desperate, and yet defeated. "Why, Harry? Why can't we just attend the party like normal people – eat all the food, drink a bit too much, flirt with some girls...I take it back - you can have all the champagne you want!"

Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"_Why?_"

"Because that would be _boring,_" Harry insisted, sticking his head into the window, popping out again, and then climbing halfway inside. "Come on!" And with that, his form disappeared into the darkness beyond the half-opened window.

Terry sighed resignedly, grimacing and shaking slightly as he cautiously climbed up onto the balustrade, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. But when he opened them, and chanced a look below him, he could not help but exclaim in an embarrassingly small voice. "Harry! What if I fall!"

Harry's head poked out the window, which suddenly seemed very, very far away, and he grinned. "Why Terry, you know I have an _excellent _hovering charm."

Terry's countenance grew more desperate. "Please Harry…"

Harry stuck out a pouty lip. "Well if you're going to be like that, I'll just explore on my own."

Terry groaned, closing his eyes and scrunching up his face in intense thought. Seeming to have resolved something in his mind, his eyes snapped open a moment later, and taking a deep but shaky breath, he began the ascent up the ornate façade. Much to his relief, it was not long before he scrambled onto the ledge and through the window, with such nervous fervour that he tumbled onto the floor with a crash. He groaned as he rolled over, stumbling to his feet to observe the unimpressed face Harry, who was staring at him with his arms crossed, gave him.

"Do you _want _us to get caught?" Harry asked flatly.

Terry shook his head rapidly, and then paused glancing around the room. "Where are we now?" he asked unsurely.

Harry strolled over to the desk that stood to the side, picking up one of the pieces of paper and thrusting it towards Terry's face.

Terry squinted to read who the letter was addressed to. Suddenly, his eyes widened. "Mr. Gregorio Medici!"

Harry grinned and nodded. "The owner of this ostentatious piece of real estate. Business man, art dealer, collector, and if the magical Italian tabloids are to be believed, mob boss."

Any colour that was left in Terry's face was instantly drained away. "Harry, we've got to get out of here…"

"No!" Harry said urgently, "Don't you see? It's perfect! It's like fate wanted us here – I mean, what are the chances? The window's unlocked, right above the balcony we happened to stumble onto…"

"This place is probably warded," Terry interjected, "We've got to get out before we're caught…"

Harry shook his head. "See, that's the beauty of it. The man doesn't have any family – so the only people he needs to keep out are intruders. There weren't any extra brute force security measures, so any warding over and above the other wards on the house must be …"

"Intention based," Terry finished for him, a thoughtful frown on his face. "It fits. We don't mean any harm, so the detectors haven't gone off…"

"So we can snoop all we want," Harry concluded smugly.

"Harry…I _really _don't think this is a good idea…"

"How often are we presented with an opportunity like this?" Harry exclaimed, "Look at all the books! And I bet there are secret drawers and cupboards and rooms everywhere! It's bloody amazing, mate!"

"Yeah…secret…hidden…impossible to find…"

"Nothing's impossible," Harry retorted, "It's the fact that they're hidden that makes it interesting. Now come on, let's see what sort of books Mr. Medici keeps."

Within minutes, the two of them had amassed a pile of books that had caught their fancy in the middle of floor – books on obscure artifacts, wards, rituals, and historical events. Among them was one on Peruvian religion, another on wards that affect brain chemistry, one on the lesser known dark lords of Siberia, and another on shamanic rituals in Central America.

They started by skimming over the introductions and tables of contents of the books, but it did not take long for both Harry and Terry to find a subject that captured their attention, and soon enough, both were absorbed in their reading. However, Terry became bored very quickly – his short attention span first manifested in fidgeting, but he soon found himself too put off to read. For a time he just watched Harry, who was deeply engrossed in his own tome, but soon enough, the flittling uneasiness in his mind got to him, and he decided to make conversation.

"So...you're finishing two vials off every week..." He cringed as soon as the words came out of his mouth – of all the things to talk about...

Even so, it managed to get Harry's attention, causing him to freeze.

Though still frustrated with his own thoughtlessness, Terry was relieved that he received no denial or snarky reply, and perhaps against his better judgement pressed on, "That can't be healthy..."

At that, Harry's book snapped shut.

Terry gulped.

"Meddling isn't either," was Harry's quiet reply.

Terry hesitated. "I...I know. But...I can't really help that I'm concerned."

Harry didn't respond to that.

"I mean...for you, _you _of all people, to resort to drinking those potions...the dreams must be really, _really _bad."

Harry simply gave him a flat look – seasoned only with the slightest bit of pleading, clearly saying 'let's not go there...'

But Terry, even as he hesitated, uneasiness swirling about in his stomach, pressed on, "Are they...about that night?"

Harry stared at him for a good long moment, trying to decide how to respond to that – eerily, over the last little while, he had seemed to have developed a strange aversion to lying to Terry. "Sometimes." Only Jean knew – only Jean, his only _real _family knew about those memories, which Tom had so keenly taken to tormenting him with whenever the potions began to wear off. And now _Terry_ knew – Merlin, what was his problem?

But Terry seemed to be deeply affected by the simple answer, and he nodded slowly, tears even brimming in his eyes.

Though feeling extremely awkward due to Terry's obvious change in emotional state, Harry was at once grateful that he chose not to pester him, or ask him anymore questions, drinking up the silence like a mug of ale on a warm day, or a cup of hot cider on a freezing night. But nothing could have prepared him for the words that came next.

"He...he's still alive, isn't he? V...V-Voldemort."

Harry paled instantly, his eyes snapping towards Terry's, both sharing in a silent panic and muddled storm of uncomfortable emotion. Fear, defeat, anger, despair; yet all overpowered by the confusion and anxiety that the statement brought – because truth be told, neither of them really knew what it meant. Nor did they want to.

"Yeah." It wasn't more than a whisper, but it was enough to make Terry's heart sink.

"H-how?"

"It's complicated."

Terry nodded shakily. The past few weeks, he had been putting together clues - mostly revolving around what had happened while Harry was at Hogwarts, and Harry himself. He had been craving, anticipating an explanation, some answers that were more than mere speculation. But now...he felt like he could wait.

Both of them were silent from there. The lulling whisper of the music below and the beat of dancing footfalls and the white noise of ceaseless chatter – all of it seeped into the room, and yet seemed to make the silence starker. Finally, though, Harry groaned, tossing the book on the ground.

"Right, so this is boring now – let's look for some secret compartments or cupboards, or something…"

Terry shook his head, shaking off the silence. "…why…?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "So we're not bored anymore…?"

"And…how…?"

"How what?"

Terry sighed. "How are we going to find the _secret _compartments?"

Harry smirked. "Why, Terry, the thrill is in the _hunt_ – the _pursuit_."

Terry grimaced. "We're still talking about cupboards, right?"

Harry waved his hand dismissively, before whirling around to start patting down the sides of the desk. "Of course. Check the drawers, will you?"

Terry nodded slowly, frowning and wondering how Harry got him to do the things he did as he stood and walked around to the other side of the desk, starting to shuffle through the top drawer.

Harry sighed as he finished with the exterior of the desk, turning to the bookshelf behind it. "Don't forget to check the bottoms of the drawers."

Terry grumbled out an expression of agreement, shutting the drawer he was currently looking through and turning to the next one. His monotonous rifling paused, however, when he felt something jitter under his searching fingers. "Harry, I think I found one, a hidden compartment in the second drawer. The bottom sort of...shifts when I touch it."

In an instant, Harry was by his side, peering into the drawer with interest. He pointed to a knot it the right corner. "There, that dark spot there."

With the slightest trepidation, Terry stuck his finger into the panel and pulled up; and sure enough, it was lifted, revealing a small compartment beneath.

Almost greedily, Harry reached inside, and a moment later, his hand emerged with two things; a ring of keys and a stack of letters. Slipping the keys over his fingers, he carefully unfolded the topmost letter, smirking as he read. "It would seem that Mr. Medici is cheating on his girlfriend. And his other one…ooh, and his other one…"

Terry grimaced. "Bastard."

Harry's lips twitched. "Capitalist."

Terry stared at him in disbelief.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm only joking. Of course he's a bastard." With that, he stuffed the letters back into the compartment, shutting it and sliding the door shut.

"What about the keys?" Terry asked curiously.

Harry smirked. "These _must _be for something even more secret than the compartment – a lockbox, a vault, a secret room…" he continued to list as he turned to the bookshelf, resuming to his task of inspecting the books, only pausing to gesture for Terry's aid.

Slowly, the boys worked their way up the shelves, sliding out or tugging at books, peering behind them in an attempt to locate some indication of a hidden vault or chamber. When Harry tried the fifteenth book on the sixth shelf, it was then that he was finally able to let out a triumphant shout, as a deep sounding click was heard, and the bookshelf shifted, and beginning to inch to the side.

Meanwhile, Terry gaped between Harry and the door slowly being revealed. "How did you know? How could you _possibly_ have known there'd be a secret room in here?"

Harry grinned. "You didn't actually think I was leading you on a wild goose chase, did you?" He discretely patted his pocket, where he ever kept his deck of tarot cards.

Terry simply stared at him, not quite knowing what to say to that.

Harry only smiled at his friends reaction, turning his attention to the newly revealed, heavy wooden door, leaning down to inspect the lock on it. Not minding Terry's anticipatory stare, he took a few long moments to thoroughly observe the steel lock – _odd, for a wizard to have something steel,_ he could not help but notice – before he turned his gaze to the ring of keys in his hand. It took him only a second or two to recognize the key formed in the correct shape. He paused dramatically, holding the key just in front of the lock. "And now, to see what secret treasures lie within."

Terry rolled his eyes, but he could not keep the glimmer of excitement out of his eyes as Harry slid the key in, turning it smoothly, and with his other hand, pushing the door forward.

Both of the boys gasped at the picture painted in front of them. Least exotic were the chests of gold – the statues and carvings of ivory and jade, tattered scrolls, and ancient urns and pottery were what drew the eye.

Only a moment of stunned silence passed before Harry squealed (though he would never, ever admit it) with joy, bounding forward into the musty, dark room to inspect the treasure trove they had found.

"Terry…Terry! You seeing this?" Harry breathed.

"Uh…yeah…" Terry replied dazedly, leaning toward one of the statues, seemingly entranced by it. "I don't know how you do it Harry, but…just…_wow_."

"It's a pity we can't steal anything," Harry mumbled.

Terry looked at him sharply. "Don't touch anything, we don't know what might set off the wards…"

Smirking, Harry made a show of hovering his finger above a richly engraven bronze candlestick.

"Harry…" Terry said warningly.

Harry simply retracted his finger and chuckled – but suddenly, the flippant echo of his laughs died out.

When Terry turned around to see what had caught his friend's attention, he gave a start, though he knew not why. Harry was standing in front of a large jar, the pottery old and cracked, the elaborate charcoal paint ornamenting it blistering away – for a reason unknown to the two boys, it seemed to be the oldest thing in the room; the oldest thing they had ever seen, in fact. It was nearly a metre tall, and it was not slender, nor was it wide; as a whole, it was unremarkable, an average shape and an average size – perfect for carrying. A lid rested on the top, decorated in much the same way as the rest of the jar – black, possibly the blackest black they had ever seen, though worn, writhing over the surface area of the jar, forming intricate patterns and pictures, swirls that could be said to depict any number of letters, fractal patters that seemed to scream out words, only just undecipherable.

"W-what's that?" Terry asked slowly, approaching the place where Harry stood before it with caution.

"A jar," Harry said flatly, but he could not keep the wonder entirely out of his voice.

"Uh, yeah, but I mean...it seems kind of..."

"Amazing."

"I was going to say weird."

"That too." Harry shook his head, frowning at the jar in front of him. "It's funny...I could swear I've seen it somewhere before..."

Terry quirked an eyebrow.

"Wonder what's inside…"

Suddenly, Terry's hand shot out to catch Harry's, which had begun to inch toward the lid of the jar.

"Harry!" he hissed.

Harry glared at him. "Let go. I just want to see what's inside."

Terry glared right back. "That's a _really _bad idea."

"Why?"

"It...it just is," Terry replied emphatically.

Harry frowned at him, wrenching his hand out of his grip and staring him straight in the eye for a good few moments – before he snaked his hand toward the jar, placing a finger on the lid.

"See?" He grinned. "No touch-activated wards."

Terry let out a shaky sigh and tried to look relieved.

Slowly, Harry lifted the lid off the jar, ignoring the brief scraping sound that the aged pottery made, and placing it on a shelf beside the jar. It was then that he noticed a light, a small glow growing from within the jar – it was white and pure, though faint. With wide eyes Harry leaned over to catch a glimpse of what lay within, vaguely noticing Terry leaning over his shoulder to catch a glimpse as well.

It was a cube, small, eerily like a rubix cube in appearance, with all the divisions and panels on its surface, sat at the bottom of the jar. Both boys gaped at it for a moment – it looked so out of place, pristine, clean, and new in the decrepit old piece of pottery. Before he knew what he was doing, Harry had reached in and pulled the cube out, marveling at the comforting warmth it exuded as he held it out in front of him. It was as though the light wanted to embrace him, to crawl inside of him and never let him go - but something was holding it back.

"Bloody hell…"

Terry simply stared, glancing between Harry and the cube with concern in his eyes. "Harry, I'm not sure that…"

"No," Harry stated confidently. "This, this is a good thing. It's like…it's like…"

"Like the shadows flee before it."

Harry stared at him incredulously. "Uh…yeah."

Terry blinked. "I don't know why I said that."

Harry quirked an eyebrow, but was then silent, his eyes soon joining Terry's to stare at the strange glowing cube in his hand. "What _is_ it?"

"I have no idea." Terry squinted, studying the queer object for a moment before gathering his resolve and reaching down to touch it with his finger. But as soon as the sensation of warmth came over him, something strange happened to the cube – a sharp click was heard, and then it began to move. The glowing panels on its surface began to shift, sinking and rising as whirring gears rose to the surface, which was fracturing into tiny pieces, gradually dancing into a new shape.

Both boys gaped at the new shape – some sort of complex polyhedron, a shape that seemed better than the last, exuding more warmth and light, as though the tiny box was trying to...open up – the cogs in their brains turning rapidly, fueled by all the questions and possibilities spinning through their minds.

"I think…it's a puzzle of some sort," Terry postulated.

"Yeah, or a lock box."

Terry's eyes glittered. "Maybe if you solve the puzzle, you find a treasure inside."

Harry's lips twitched. "Let's keep it."

Terry's eyes grew impossibly wide. "Harry, no! That's stealing, and stealing is _wrong_! Not to mention illegal…"

Harry huffed. "It…it doesn't belong to Mr. Medici. It _wants _to come with us."

Terry looked positively befuddled.

"Let's bring it back, and solve the puzzle. Come on, I know you want to."

Terry bit his lip. "You want to steal it." It wasn't a question.

Harry groaned. "I bet he didn't even know about the cube inside the jar. It's not _really _stealing – "

"You want to steal it, you _intend_ to steal it," Terry interrupted, "And no wards, no alarms have gone off."

A grin crawled its way onto Harry's face. "See, it's destiny. I _really _want to figure out what this is, and I know you do too."

Terry exhaled shakily. "Fine, yeah, I know – too curious for my own good! Let's just get out of here, okay?"

Harry's grin grew, and he nodded, stuffing the cube into his robes, placing the lid back on the jar and ushering Terry out of the secret room, locking the door behind them.

And as the boys meticulously made sure the office looked no different than it did before they disturbed it, both were high on the excitement that their escapade had given them, oblivious to the creeping, crawling shadow that had slithered out of the ancient piece of pottery, escaping into the darkness of the night, as well as the fact that if they had looked just a bit closer, just a bit longer, the patterns ornamenting the shadow's former prison may have been recognized as the letters:

ΑΠΑΓΟΡΕΥΜΕΝΟΣ

* * *

So, there's the early seeds of my newly contrived plot which is hoping to writhe its way into the events of 3rd year. We'll see how that goes…

So, what do you think? Review!


	33. Of Dursleys and Dogfathers

**Disclaimer:** I own a pomegranate. Which I will not own much longer, for I am eating it. I don't own Harry Potter, the Dursleys, or Sirius Black, though. Unfortunately.

**AN:** 1. Thank you for your patience, my faithful readers. My school schedule is proving very demanding, so I highly doubt that I'll be updating on any sort of consistently quick schedule. At some times, regularity may prove a challenge too - I will try my very hardest, however. My best estimate is at once every other week as an average...  
2. Some parts of this chapter are straight out of _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban._ It's one of my favourite moments, and so it just felt right to piece it back in here.  
3. Oh, and about the last chapter, no, I did not give Harry the Lament Configuration – no crossovers with Hellraiser…though, that does make an interesting idea..  
Those who were thinking along the line of the Pandora pithos myth were on the right track…think Pandora + Dementors ;)

* * *

**Chapter 33: Of Dursleys and Dogfathers**

Harry sighed as he stood before the whitewashed suburban nightmare that was Number 4 Privet Drive, the domicile where dwelt the dreaded Dursleys.

Earlier that day, Harry and the Boots had arrived back at their estate via international portkey; it was then that Harry bid his farewells, refusing any offers to escort him home – he did not fancy having the Boots meet his bigoted, rude muggle relatives, not after the Boots had been so kind to him. Harry knew impeccable manners were not a quality he had in abundance, but he knew well that such decent people should not have to be put through being chastised as 'freaks.' Thus, Harry had used his own portkey, arriving at Jean's hollow, picking up the owl post that he had arranged to be dropped there, and then walking the rest of the way to Number 4 Privet Drive, not at all minding the sweltering summer heat.

He had arrived but a few moments ago, but upon his arrival, he he had frozen – for there was one glaring addition to the usual, monotonous exterior of the Dursley household, an extra automobile in the driveway; one extra automobile that he recognized to belong to one Marge Dursley. Splendid. Absolutely splendid. What was the fat old cow doing there? Would he be able to sneak in without her noticing? He gritted his teeth – he hadn't seen her in years, but he remembered well that the woman was absolutely infuriating. As a child, he had taken her abuse with a straight face, doing what he could to hang onto what little pride he had by refusing to give in to her taunting and cruelty, but these days, he found his temper ever so close to the surface – he certainly did not want to have to deal with her, of all people.

He sighed again, reaching into his pocket, fingering the small, glowing cube that was sitting warm and comfortable in his jacket. He and Terry had taken the entire night before their arrival back in Britain to try and figure out the workings of the strange puzzle-like object. It was the oddest thing – they would touch, twist, and tap parts, and the puzzle would shift, gears and contraptions turning to morph it into a new shape; and somehow, they would just _know _when they were getting closer to solving it, and when they weren't. Anticipation would build and bring them into a profoundly excited state, or fall and drag them into a hopeless, depressive feeling of absence. Needless to say, both boys were loth to part each other and the new amusement they shared, and would have much rather spent the rest of the summer together with the puzzle – in the end, Harry agreed not to try and solve the puzzle on his own until both of them could work on it together at Hogwarts.

He smiled as he fondly recalled the holiday, idly shuffling through the various flashes of the best and brightest memories...

He shook his head – enough stalling. He marched up the garden path and left his trunk right outside the front door, entering the house carefully and quietly, cringing when he heard the boisterous voices coming from the kitchen, subconsciously surrounding the door with his magic so that it didn't squeak. But then he halted, frowning – why the hell was he sneaking around? He wasn't eight-years-old, and he had nothing to be scared of. Sneering, he threw the door shut, and before a second passed, the most irritating sound he had ever heard met his ears – the frantic yapping of Aunt Marge's dog Ripper. A moment later, the fat, nearly hairless bulldog came barreling down the hallway, skidding to a halt when it caught a glimpse at the vicious glare Harry was sending his way.

"Who's there!" Vernon's voice suddenly bellowed, and Harry grimaced at the sound.

Carefully blank-faced, he made his way into the kitchen, where, sure enough, Aunt Marge sat at the table, enjoying tea with Vernon, Dudley, and Petunia – who looked very out of place indeed, being thin as a twig, while her husband, son, and sister-in-law were very nearly morbidly obese.

"Good afternoon, Dursleys," Harry said casually, striding straight to the refrigerator and pulling out a pitcher of milk.

"You!" Vernon sputtered angrily, while Petunia and Dudley went white beside him.

"Yes, me," Harry stated blandly, downing the glass of milk he had poured himself in one go.

Meanwhile, Marge seemed utterly oblivious to the nervousness the other three Dursleys were exhibiting, and attempted to sneer at Harry – but after two years of passively (and sometimes not so passively...) enduring Severus Snape's malicious facial expressions, Aunt Marge simply looked nauseous and slightly constipated to Harry. "Back from detention already?"

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he cast a not-so-subtle questioning glance at Vernon.

"Yes, summer detention at St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys," Vernon ground out, clearly labouring heavily to steady his voice.

Harry gave a tight smile with a maligning edge to it. "Yes, of course, just got back."

Marge harrumphed pompously, turning to Vernon with a condescendingly pitying look on her face. "You know, Vernon, the first time I laid eyes on this one, I knew for sure; rotten to the core. One's got to wonder where it comes from – bad blood, I suppose." She glanced at Petunia, "Not to say anything about you, or yours, dear, but your sister…well, there's always a bad one in the bunch, isn't there?"

Harry turned away, pointedly ignoring them, and beginning to search through the cupboards for a snack, much to Petunia's barely-suppressed ire. Unfortunately, his search was soon interrupted by Marge's snapping,

"Look this way, boy! Ignoring your betters, very rude! You should show some respect to my brother, you sniveling brat; my brother, who so kindly took you in. Had it been me, I would have tossed you right back onto the street."

"No need to state the obvious."

"Clearly," Marge said distastefully, "St. Brutus's has done nothing for that wretched tongue of yours – it should be cut off. Tell me, boy, do they use the cane there?"

Harry stifled a smirk. "Of course."

"Excellent," said Aunt Marge. "I won't have this namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense about not hitting people who deserve it. A good thrashing is what's needed in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. Have you been beaten often?"

Harry could not help but grin at that; and he could certainly not keep the mocking out of his voice. "Oh yeah, loads of times."

"I still don't like your tone, boy," she barked out. "If you can speak of your beatings in that casual way, they clearly aren't hitting you hard enough. Petunia, I'd write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve the use of extreme force in this boy's case."

Petunia nodded stiffly, her face going even whiter.

Vernon, however, who had been watching Harry carefully, seemed to notice the far away look in the boy's sparkling green eyes, glimmering with the turning of the cogs of his devious mind, and attempted to change the direction of the conversation. "Heard the news, last week, Marge? How about that escaped prisoner, eh?"

Harry perked up slightly at that, watching interestedly as Marge turned her attention to Vernon, nodding. "Mass murderer, escaped after 12 years, isn't that right?" She sipped her tea, and then placed the cup on the floor for Ripper to drink out of. "You know," she said, her eyes returning to Harry in a pitiful form of a glare, "That's what you'll end up like, if you don't smarten up, boy – rotting in prison somewhere, while your useless little life dwindles away."

"Tragic," Harry drawled flatly.

"Don't take that tone with me, boy," Marge snarled, making to rise to her feet before Vernon stopped her.

"There, there, Marge – not to worry, I'll punish him thoroughly later."

Marge nodded stiffly, casting a smug look at Harry. "You do that Vernon, make sure he cries."

Vernon nodded contritely.

"You mustn't blame yourself for the way the boy's turned out, Vernon," Marge continued, "If there's something rotten on the inside, there's nothing anyone can do about it."

All three of the Dursleys made sounds of agreement, but as the green fire in Harry's eyes began to burn even brighter, they quieted, shifting awkwardly.

But Marge paid no mind. "Bad breeding," she concluded, glancing at Petunia, "Say, who was he? The wastrel your sister ran off with?"

Petunia started. "Oh! Potter!" she squeaked. "James Potter."

"This Potter," Marge mused, "You never told me what he did?"

Vernon and Petunia were looking extremely tense, at this point, beginning go paler than was healthy, Harry noted. Dudley had even looked up from his pie to gape at his parents.

"He — didn't work," stammered Vernon, with half a glance at Harry. "Unemployed."

"As I expected!" said Aunt Marge, a triumphant look glimmering in her eyes, "A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who —"

"You shouldn't speak of things you know nothing about," Harry said suddenly, his voice stiff and frigid.

Vernon looked alarmed at this, torn between placating his potentially volatile nephew and saving face with his sister. "That's enough boy, have things to unpack, don't you –"

"No, Vernon," interrupted Marge smugly, holding up pudgy hand, once again trying to intimidate Harry with her tiny eyes. "Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I expect) —"

"Shows what you know," Harry retorted coldly, "They didn't die in a car crash at all."

Marge barked out a derisive laugh. "Perhaps he should be sent off to the asylum, Vernon - the boy's clearly delusional. He could be dangerous you know -"

_If only she knew how right she was_, Harry thought as his glare hardened.

"- and the last thing your family needs is the burden of a mentally unstable delinquent. The little mongrel should be should be locked up-"

"Perhaps you should be the one locked up, _Marge_," Harry suddenly hissed, eyes alight with fire; he couldn't quite place his finger on why, but the thought of being locked away like a caged animal was...unbearable, "I'm sure there's a way they can connect your obvious insecurity, weight problems, and childish bullying with mental retardation!"

The woman's face went red, but as she opened her mouth, Harry continued,

"And until you've got a clean bill of mental health, I suggest you refrain from taking about me, or my parents, who most certainly _did not die in a car crash_."

"They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives!" Marge screamed back at him, swelling and reddening with fury. "You are an insolent, ungrateful little swine, and it's all their fault, don't you know! It's the first rule of breeding – if there's something wrong with the bitch, then there'll be something wrong with the pup –"

At that moment, the air in the room completely transformed, the vitality being sucked out of it and replaced with biting cold, as the glass door behind Marge shattered, the shards flying every which way, several cutting her across the face and the hands. The woman almost fell out of her chair, letting out a horrid shriek. She had not yet recovered when she looked up to find Harry standing before her, his face dark, eyes aglow with the colour of the Killing Curse, and his magic crackling like static on his skin.

"My parents were _good _people – hard working, honest, kind, and brave. They were murdered, they died protecting me!"

Marge opened her mouth, but Harry cut her off, his voice sharp and ragged with fury. "You're wrong, you know – breeding has nothing to do with it. My parents were good people, but I'm not – _I'm _not good, _I'm _not kind, and _I don't _forgive. And I'm _this _close to ripping out your throat and bathing in your dirty blood, you hideous, pathetic, filthy muggle whore!"

The woman was frozen in outrage for only a second, before a look of unbridled rage washed over her face, boiling with rage. Stiffly, she held an accusing finger up, beginning to screech, "How _dare _you –"

But suddenly, her impending rant came to an abrupt halt when the strangest thing happened. Harry was well aware of the strange physical attribute all Dursleys seemed to possess – they swelled, literally _grew _(usually sideways...) when angry. At least, that was how it seemed. Sure enough, Marge was swelling with inexpressible anger — but even when her words ceased in a bout of internal shock, the swelling didn't stop.

Her great red face started to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched too tightly for speech — next second, several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket and pinged off the walls — she was inflating like a monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a salami…

"MARGE!" Vernon and Petunia simultaneously cried out as Marge's whole body began to rise off her chair toward the ceiling. She was entirely round, now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her hands and feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up into the air, making apoplectic popping noises. Ripper came skidding into the room, barking madly, following as she drifted out the large window Harry had broken a few moments prior.

"NOOOOOOO!"

Uncle Vernon charged out the back door and leapt forward to seize one of Marge's feet, trying to pull her down again, but was almost lifted from the floor himself. A second later, Ripper leapt forward and sank his teeth into Uncle Vernon's leg, causing him to let go of Marge and fall flat on his ass.

All three Dursleys watched in horror as Marge rose up into the sky, screeching loudly as she began to drift away. It did not take long, however, for the awful noise to melt into the distance, leaving a silence so hollow that the Dursley's panicked mannerisms seemed to freeze. That is, until Vernon turned to him with fearful anger in his eyes.

"What have you done!" the man cried out wretchedly, "Bring her back, bring her back now! You put her right, right now, boy!"

Silence, as the Dursleys watched with bated breath for Harry's response, Vernon's adrenaline-inspired confidence draining away by the second.

Harry had been watching the whole affair with wide, expressionless eyes, tempered only with a glimmer of vindictive fascination. When the stark silence that followed Vernon's outburst was broken, though, it was broken by Harry's giddy bellows of laughter.

"Wow!" he exclaimed between chuckles, "Just _wow_! I didn't even know I could do _that_!"

His laughter grew even more raucous when Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley gaped at him in horror. "Brilliant! I feel just great now! Like...like it's Christmas morning! Brilliant, just brilliant!" he said happily, internally marveling at how fulfilling it was to put the nastiest Dursley of them all in her place.

But suddenly, he sobered, causing the Dursleys to tense instantly. "Uh-oh…" he said thoughtfully, remembering something very, _very _important, "I _really _shouldn't have done that…" The Ministry might not notice his smaller, more routine not-so-accidental bouts of accidental magic, but they wouldn't miss a Marge-balloon flying merrily over the normally quiet residential streets of Surrey. "Great, just great."

The anger, the frustration, and the defeated, depressing feeling that had originally fueled his outburst came rushing back, along with anxiety. His face whitened, and he was barely able to resist the urge to knock the table over, or lash out at the Dursleys. Taking a deep breath, he finally turned to face them with dead eyes, causing them to flinch away from the indignant disappointment radiating off him. He didn't know why he still had it in him to be disappointed with them – why he would even subconsciously consider the possibility that the Dursleys would be decent enough to prevent the slandering of his parents in his presence. He shouldn't anymore – they were nothing to him, and judging from the looks in their eyes, cold and fearful, and frantic, as though they didn't even recognize him, he was nothing to them as well.

"I'm going now," he said quietly, he didn't miss the shock and relief flooding their eyes, along with the firm agreement.

_You're not welcome here. _The words went unsaid, but were nonetheless as clear as day.

"And I'm not coming back."

They didn't make a sound; they didn't even dare to move.

He turned away, making for the front door, before pausing, looking over his shoulder with a reassuring – for all the wrong reasons – smile. And if anyone comes by, don't forget to tell them it was an accident."

And with that, the Dursleys were left alone with the feeling that they had missed something very, very big – and wondering why on earth, during the terrible ordeal, Harry's eyes had flashed crimson.

* * *

Harry was swinging back and forth, listening to the creaking of the decrepit old swing set in his neighbourhood park, humming quietly to himself a guitar riff he couldn't quite place.

He had left Number 4 Privet Drive, and he had not looked back, dragging his trunk behind him. He had no idea why it had taken so long for it to click, and why why it was just clicking now – the Dursleys didn't hate him. He was not, as he had once thought, stuck at the lowest end their scale of love and hate. The one with themselves at the top and Miss Pickins, their annoying neighbour at the bottom. They didn't even see him as human – he never even made it on the scale. It had hurt – the long nights alone, the painful punishments, the unreasonable amounts of chores, the verbal attacks and intimidation – but it had always, for him, just been an obstacle he needed to overcome, a struggle that he always took the slightest bit of pride for coming out on top. A game, of clear cut him-against-them. He thought they hit him because they were angry with him, they called him a freak to try to provoke him, to try to make him feel small, in a meager attempt at victory – but that wasn't it at all. They didn't want to win; they didn't need to win. They thought, they knew that _they were right_. That he was a blemish on their otherwise perfect life, that his very existence was an abnormality that shouldn't be in the first place. They thought themselves to be normal, and therefore right; correct, belonging. Everything else was an abomination, including him.

_Disgusting muggles. _

And then there was that. He hadn't used his advantage to play with, to taunt Marge; he hadn't gotten his revenge in a humiliating, purely amusing, and basically harmless way. At some point, it ceased to be a game. The human body wasn't meant to be stretched like that; Marge would be lucky to survive. Vindictiveness and playful cruelty all came naturally to him, but not to that degree, and not in that way. He had thrown back at her the same kind of condescending bullying that she had dished out to him so many times. He had sunk to her level. What was happening to him? He rubbed his itching scar, recalling with a sinking feeling that he had not taken his sleeping draft in two nights.

_Damn it._

He knew he had sounded frighteningly like Tom – in fact, the whole fiasco seemed like it had come out of a 'What Would Tom Do?' manual. He shook his head and snorted deprecatingly. He would have to be _far _more careful from now on. He was angry at himself, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly pathetic, weak, and dirty – he wished he could reach into his mind, tear Tom out and rip him to pieces. Or rip him out, and then practice fiendfyre on him. Or pick him out with a mental toothpick, piece by agonizing piece. Or torment him until he threw himself willingly into oblivion…

Harry's vengeful thoughts, however, were interrupted but the strangest sight – a sight that made his eyes bulge in a way he didn't think possible. He had vaguely noted the presence of a black, skinny, scruffy mongrel watching him hungrily from across the park. He had expected that the half-starved creature would eventually plod up to him and begin to beg him for a snack. What he certainly did _not _expect was for the dog to inch toward him slowly, cautiously, before collapsing on the ground – and a moment later transforming before his very eyes, into a _human being_.

Startled, Harry immediately fetched his wand, and then sprang forward, eager to get a closer look at his shape-shifting company. Once he got closer to the figure, he slowed down cautiously, carefully taking in the shape before him – it was a man, though one Harry would have thought dead if it wasn't for the laboured heaving of his chest. The man was tall, but emaciated, his face gaunt and sickly – he looked as though he had not eaten in months. His limbs were lanky, no fat on them, the muscles long-since atrophied, and the bones jutting out at every crook and joint. His hair was limp, ragged, and uneven, a soft black peppered with grey; his fingernails were bloody, and his teeth were yellow. But perhaps most shocking was the fact that he was covered in tattoos – some looked like the normal sort, girls' names and that sort, but then there were the others, the runes and the letters and the clear marking that betrayed the man's status as a criminal of the wizarding world. And if Harry was reading right, the man had not escaped from just any prison, but from _Azkaban_.

He sucked in a deep breath, panicking for a moment – most prisoners of Azkaban were former Death Eaters or the like; even in such a pitiful state, the man could be dangerous. But as he considered this, something else caught Harry's eye – a set of tattoos on the man's arm, which looked startlingly familiar…but where were they from…?

Sirius Black's mugshot! Harry gasped, dropping to his knees to get a closer look at the man's face. It was just barely there, but sure enough, the man bore traces of Sirius Black's handsome, aristocratic features. Harry could barely believe it – this was his godfather! His godfather had escaped from Azkaban! All of a sudden, he felt happy, relieved, proud, and victorious all at once – and he could not stop the brilliant grin that spread over his face. The criminal the muggle police had been warned about, the one that had escaped from a mysterious prison after 12 years - it was Sirius Black!

But that was when the reality sunk in. Sirius Black was a wanted fugitive – an alleged Death Eater and mass murderer, who the Ministry of Magic would stop at nothing to find. Perfect. So on top of explaining away his violent burst of not-so-accidental magic and finding a way to avoid getting sent back to the Dursleys, he had a wanted man to harbour.

He looked down at the unconscious face of his godfather. He was ecstatic that the man had escaped the inhumane hellhole that was Azkaban, but things just got so much more complicated – it would be much harder to build a case for Sirius Black's innocence while he was subject to a manhunt. Even if his godfather did manage to stay out of the hands of the authorities, Wizengamot would be much less receptive to the idea of giving him a trial – and if he was caught…well, Harry was fairly sure that the aurors were given orders to 'kill on sight.'

He sighed. There was nothing to be done about it now. Silently sending a quick prayer to the Fates, asking them for mercy, he rose to his feet, calling for the only person he could trust at the moment.

"Kreacher!" He grimaced. "We have a problem."

* * *

So, yeah, sorry that the chapter's, you know, dwarf sized. Weeeellll, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but still, I wanted it to be longer. I have a feeling the next chapter will have a little more content, what with all the messes Harry has to deal with now...

So, what do you think? BTW, any suggestions for third year are welcome...


	34. Of Confusion and Criminality

**Disclaimer:** ...we've been over this, I swear.

**AN:** 1. Thank you, my riveting, rival-less, robustly real-life readers, for relishing and reveling in and reviewing in retrospect to reading my respectfully revealed writing.  
2. Sooo...writing this chapter, Harry's language is starting to become only slightly cruder (as to be expected from a teenager), and now Sirius is joining the mix...and I always imagine him with a foul tongue, for some reason, so I'm beginning to wonder whether or not I'll have to hike up the rating to M eventually…hmm…thoughts?  
3. And yes, I know the bit with Tom is weird. But writing those creepy dream-ish scenes is amusing and fun, so you'll just have to bear with me.

* * *

**Chapter 34: Of Confusion and Criminality  
**

Harry sighed deeply, rubbing his sore head as he listened to Aunt Walburga rant. After getting Sirius's emaciated form tucked in into the burgundy silk-sheeted bed in his childhood bedroom (though dusty and ill-cared for, courtesy of Kreacher, it indeed was), he felt that it would be prudent to address both Kreacher and Walburga concerning the newest additions to 12 Grimmauld Place. Needless to say, neither of them had been too happy about Sirius's presence – and in their ill-content, completely overlooked the more pleasing fact that he would be staying there as well. He felt so unloved, and Aunt Walburga's raving wasn't doing anything to remedy that.

"- and welcoming that blood traitorous scum into the house of my fathers –"

"A –"

"- who disgraced me and broke my heart without a second thought –"

"Aunt…"

"- how could you, and without my consent –"

"Aunt W-"

"Of all the thoughtless, irresponsible –"

Harry sighed again, closing his eyes. It was no use, really – the portrait was clearly lost in its own little world, and there was nothing he could possibly do about it, so he resolved right then and there to remain silent, and bide his time. Even if Walburga was only painting, she had to take a breather eventually, right?

Five minutes.

Fifteen minutes. A few mudblood comments.

Thirty. And the screeching started.

An hour. It was a _whole hour _before Walburga Black's grating, shrieking voice finally died down, replaced by a silent, deathly glare – Harry could only be relieved that the wildness in her eyes had waned, if only a little.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" came her impatient demand for an explanation.

Harry would have snorted, had he not been so mentally worn down by the last hour of Walburga's raging. He opted for a quiet sigh instead, and, having had a whole hour to consider his strategy, started his defence diplomatically, "Sirius is my blood and my godfather, and I found him near death, having just escaped from Azkaban." He glanced up at the portrait, letting a small amount of forcefulness enter his eyes. "It would have been unthinkable to leave him there, and I had no where else to bring him."

Walburga said nothing to that, her face grim but still - though her eyes were glimmering with thoughtfulness. Harry took this as a good sign, and continued neutrally.

"I won't claim to know anything about what happened between Sirius and the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, but I believe that he loved my parents, and that he was loyal to the end – that he's suffered over a decade for his loyalty. He means something to _me_, and currently, I am the steward of this house. Moreover, I'm the one who's alive – I'm the one who has to act and live with the consequences. With all due respect, Aunt Walburga." _Piss off and take a chill pill_, he silently added. Normally, he would have just said it out loud at that point, damn the consequences, but he feared that if the portrait started up again, his brain might turn to jelly. Harry-flavoured marmalade, as it were.

Meanwhile, Walburga, carefully concealing any resemblance of pride, sympathy, or hope that was creeping onto her pale, sallow face, sniffed. "Very well, do what you will."

Harry stifled a sigh of relief. "Thanks." He glanced down at Kreacher, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes, unmoved for the past hour. "I need to sleep. Let me know if Sirius wakes – and do your best to clean him up, will you?"

The elf nodded. "Yes Master Harry." And with that, he popped away.

Harry nodded respectfully to the portrait, before turning away to trudge up the greyish, narrow stairwell, wincing at the sound of every agonizing creak. Once he reached the top, he immediately veered into the only room he knew would be clean, the one that once belonged to Regulus Black. He immediately collapsed onto his soft bed, which was ever well-kept by Kreacher. The few times Harry had visited the previous summer, he had noticed Kreacher up in Regulus's room, bustling about to keep it tidy, muttering happily to himself – Walburga had confided that her youngest son had been unusually fond of the elf, even going so far as to comfort him when Sirius was exceptionally mean. Harry would never admit it to anyone, but he thought it was sort of sweet.

As soon as Harry's head hit the Slytherin-green silk pillow, an excruciating longing for sleep overtook him, causing him to shudder and moan. Idly, he recalled the days long past when a similar feeling would overtake him, and he would sink into a peaceful slumber – but he was no longer afforded that luxury. He reached to his side, to his B3, pulling out a familiar wooden box, popping open the lid to reveal the rows of bottles, only a handful of which were still full. Apparently, he would have to brew some more soon…

He reached inside, pulling out the vial farthest to the right, one that was nearly full. He downed it in one go, toes curling at the comforting, silky texture sliding down his throat. He smiled as irresistible slumber took him, providing him the escape he so desperately sought.

* * *

"Harry?"

Who was calling him?

"Oh Harry?"

The voice was silky, smooth...dangerously fluid and familiar. So smug.

"Harry...you're so cute when you sleep. So peaceful, quiet, innocent – it's like you're begging me to rip your throat out, strip it down, fleshy, sensitive piece by piece whilst you scream, and drink in that sweet, succulent blood of yours..."

At that, Harry darted upwards, fury, unease, and a healthy amount of fear wracking through his form as he did. He spun about anxiously, finding himself nearly nose to nose with a smirking Tom Riddle.

"I knew that one would catch your attention," the older boy drawled bemusedly, leaning back on the emerald green four-poster bed, which was seemingly floating isolated in a sea of infinite blackness. "I've been perfecting the wording and inflections for _ages_. You ought to be flattered, really."

Harry scurried away from him, pressing himself against the opposite side of the bed. "What the hell!"

Tom just continued to smirk contentedly, looking quite pleased with himself. "I was wondering when you'd be about again. I was growing lonely. Not that your mind is boring, but the corner you've stuck me in is...well...you know, lacking."

"That's _your _soul you're talking about," Harry sneered at him angrily, belying the discomfort he felt.

"My future self's soul," Tom pointed out lazily, "And if I'm honest, I'd have to say I'm very displeased – it's all rape this, kill that, death and destruction, cruciatus, over and over again, la-dee-da-dee-da..."

Harry frowned bewilderingly. "What the bloody hell sort of dream is this?"

Tom quirked an eyebrow. "A dream? What's this now? Denial? At this point? You _are _an odd little boy..."

Harry glared viciously. "Oh shut up. This can't be real – I just drank nearly a whole bottle of Dreamless Sleep. I've heard of defects, strange hallucinations and dreams, but there's no way my consciousness is free enough to drift to the tiny little corner you occupy."

"Unless," Tom said smugly, "There's something pulling you here."

Harry's heart rate sped up for a moment, and he paled, before he shook his head angrily. "No, no, that's impossible."

"Weren't you the one who spun that cheesy 'impossibility and I don't get along' line? Rather hypocritical, don't you think?"

"Shut up!" Harry snapped, "You're just a dream, my mind's playing tricks on me – it's the stress. Perfectly reasonable. Just be quiet while I figure out how to get out of here…"

Tom shrugged knowingly. "Have it your way then. In the meantime, I'll simply amuse myself." He shifted to the side, leaning over the edge of the bed to reach underneath and pull up something that made Harry let loose a strangled, panicked cry.

Cradled in Tom's hands was something Harry could not mistake, an image that had been burned into his brain many times before – the pale, dead face of a twenty-one-year-old Lily Potter. Tom held her bloodied head in his hands, her face twisted with fear and anguish as he smiled fondly at her, cleaning the blood from her cheeks and smearing it over her bluish lips like lipstain.

Harry could barely manage to speak, his chest heaving up and down in cold, silent panic. It was her eyes, her green eyes, bright and filled with terror and unadulterated agony, that betrayed to Harry the gravity of his situation – for he was instantly convinced that that frozen image was nothing his mind cooked up in a fit of twisted masochism; it was a real, vivid memory, torn deliberately out of some dark, hidden, dreadful place in the most shadowy part of his psyche. "Fucking hell..." was all he managed to articulate in the hoarse breath that passed through his lips.

"Now now, Harry," Tom chided, daintily running his fingers through the fiery red hair now splayed over his legs. "Mind your language in front of your mother. We were having the most _wonderful _conversation earlier, her and I. I really can't believe I killed her – she's so, so, _special_. The darkness, it tingles just under her skin – and she smells of death! Like the pale, cold reality itself...so ancient, so beautiful..."

But he was never given a chance to continue his tirade, as he was shoved against the back of the bed, a strong, desperate grip enclosing around his neck.

"You sick bastard!" Harry cried out wretchedly, unbridled fury glimmering in his avada kedavra green orbs. It did not even occur to him to inquire about Tom's cryptic words - so desperate and agonising was his anger.

Tom only grinned at that, dropping the head and wheezing out a laugh as best as he could.

"What? Not so sure I'm a dream anymore, are you?"

Harry's grip tightened, and Tom's grin grew, and before either of them knew what was happening, they were falling, just tumbling through the blackness, no end in sight. Panic rose up in Harry's chest, as the sensation of being sucked into oblivion overtook him – when his grip loosened, everything faded into formless darkness.

* * *

Harry awoke drenched in a cold sweat, panting desperately as though the oxygen in the air was slipping away from him. It took him only a split second to collect his thoughts and recall the grotesque scene he had just bore witness to in his own head – and realizing that it all came back to him like a real memory, and not a dream, panic, despair, confusion, and anger overtook him, and he leapt out of bed.

Instantly, he ripped the bedding off, shaking out the covers, before turning to the book shelf, tossing all the books to the floor, knocking the various trinkets beside them over carelessly. It was after he had pillaged the third bookshelf that he vaguely registered the sound of Kreacher popping into the room.

"What is Master Harry doing!" the elf cried out, the slightest hint of outrage and fear in his voice.

"Shut up, Kreacher," Harry snarled back, though it came out as more of a breathless, guttural hiss, as he continued to rip at the furnishings. He'd gone through the night table, knocking it over; now he had moved on to the desk, frantically opening and slamming drawers shut, pulling out their contents and tossing them to the side – until one caught his eyes, and he froze just as his fingers enclosed about it...a locket.

Click, click, click. Puzzle pieces fell into place. The locket that went missing from Borgin and Burkes in the forties; Regulus Black's defection and subsequent death; the dark shadow he had seen flitting in the darkness of the upstairs corridor a year prior; the horcruxes acting up in his head. The tiny object he held in his hand, the locket, it was another one, another horcrux.

Harry noticed that his hand had gone pale, and had begun to shake – instantly, he dropped the locket, as though it was searing his flesh, back into the desk drawer before shoving it shut, holding it there as though he thought it was about to burst back open at any second.

"Kreacher," Harry whispered hoarsely, "That locket I was just holding…did Regulus ever talk about it?"

"Y-yes Master," the elf responded with unusual timidness.

Harry nodded slowly. "Do you know what it is, Kreacher?"

"It…it's Master Regulus's locket."

Harry turned to look at the house elf's nearly quivering form. "No. No, it's not. But you know that, don't you?" He knelt down before Kreacher, ignoring his flinch and looking at his pitiful, round eyes. "Regulus told you a lot, didn't he? About the locket, who it belongs to, why it's important."

Kreacher, looking very close to tears, nodded.

Harry shakily rose to his feet, at least somewhat satisfied. "We'll speak more of this later."

Kreacher nodded contritely.

Harry eyed him silently for a moment. "Is Sirius awake yet?"

The elf started, and then scowled. "Yes, Master. Called poor Kreacher cruel names, first thing, he did, tried to escape, he did. But Kreacher took care of the blood traitor, don't you worry, Master Harry."

Harry felt some of the tension inside him drain away. "Good job, Kreacher...I think. I'm going to speak to him, now. I suppose he'll be hungry." He glanced pointedly at the elf. "Make him something good and healthy. Not too heavy, perhaps something a little sweet – well, on second thought, he was rather rude to you, wasn't he? Let's just give him porridge, then." He smirked, and to his delight, the normally sombre elf smirked back.

"Yes master Harry." The elf was about to pop away, but then it paused, frowning at Harry and snapping its fingers, causing a slightly damp cloth to appear in his hands. "Perhaps Master Harry will be wanting to clean himself up first." And with that, he disappeared, leaving the cloth in Harry's hands.

Harry, suddenly becoming conscious of the throbbing pain in his forehead, immediately reached up to wipe his scar clean of the blood that had inevitably pooled around it, which he could now feel dripping down his face.

Once clean, he left the messy bedroom, closing the door behind him and heading a ways down the hall, stopping in front of the bedroom he knew belonged to Sirius. He could hear loud grunting and groaning from within, the sounds of struggling and frustration. Cautiously, he inched the door open, finding himself hard pressed not to burst out laughing at the sight of his godfather wearily struggling against the ropes binding him to his bed.

After watching for a good few minutes, Harry decided to intervene, speaking bemusedly. "They'll never break, you know. House elf enchantments are exceptionally strong on simple house hold items, especially those belonging to their masters. But seriously, in the state you're in, I doubt you could escape from a muggle child's knots."

Harry's soft voice got the man's attention, as slightly wild, grey eyes leapt over to meet his, widening in shock. "James?" The man's voice was gravelly and painfully hoarse from disuse.

Harry shook his head. "Do you know where you are?"

Sirius scowled. "That wretched devil of a house elf, Kreacher – he dropped me in this wretched hellhole, didn't he?" Judging from his angry tone, he wasn't too fond of his childhood home.

"Actually, that was my doing," Harry said blandly.

Sirius's eye sparked with frustration. "If this is your idea of a joke, James, then it's awfully cruel!"

Harry sighed, a pained expression on his face. "I told you, I'm not James Potter,"

A shadow of confused madness crept over the ex-convict's face. "Of course you are! Don't play games with me! Don't, don't you bloody dare play games with me or I'll fuck you up so bad that –"

"Sirius!" Harry exclaimed, "I'm not James Potter. James Potter is dead." In the past, Harry had always had success with shocking people into getting what he wanted – apparently, that method didn't work quite as well on half-deranged escaped prisoners.

Sirius let out a wretched wail. "No! No, no, NO! Not James, not James and Lily! Oh god, why wasn't I there to save them?" His face twisted into a furious rage. "And that rat, Peter! I'll kill him! I'll rip him to shreds. I swear, I –"

SMACK!

The man was left slightly dazed, as Harry hit him across the face as hard as he could. He looked over at Harry in woozy shock.

"Let's try this again," Harry said softly, irritation underlying his voice. "Your name is Sirius Black. And you just escaped from Azkaban. Ring a bell?"

The man blinked, and then nodded slowly.

"Now, do you have any idea what the date is?"

The man seemed to withdraw into himself slightly, his eyes hazy as if reliving a vivid memory. "It...it's 1993, isn't it? That...it...it's around...August, sometime...?"

Harry nodded slowly. Though weary, drugged, and no doubt a bit unstable, the man seemed at least partially coherent. "Good, and you know, then, why you were in Azkaban?"

The man's eyes glazed over with tears almost instantly. "Lily and James...they thought it was me, they thought I'd done it..."

"Yeah, and they still do. They're looking for you, the whole bloody wizarding world, and this is the only place I know of that's remotely safe. So you'll just have to suck it up, alright? Because if you cause a fuss, or run off, and you're caught, then we're both screwed."

The man was listening to him with rapt attention, though he didn't seem to comprehend what Harry was saying all that well. "You...who are you...?" the man mumbled thoughtfully, before his eyes widened, becoming round with shock. "You...you couldn't be..."

"Harry Potter, pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Harry..." Sirius whispered with relish, "Harry...you're alive, and safe. Thank all that is holy..." He looked up at Harry with tears brimming in his eyes. "You...you look so much like James...and you have your mother's eyes." The man's face broke into a pitiful expression, one of despair, regret, anger, and weariness. "I'm so sorry, Harry...I'm so, _so_ sorry..."

"Never mind that maudlin nonsense," Harry cut in sharply. "I need something from you, Sirius."

The man's eyes widened, a small amount of glee shimmering through them. "Oh, oh, anything, Harry."

Harry looked at him intently. "I need to know whether you committed the crimes you were convicted of. Were you a Death Eater? Did you betray my parents?"

Sirius's expression was immediately overtaken by outrage and frantic, vicious denial. "NO! Never, not James and Lily!" he spat angrily, shaking his head rapidly and thrashing about in his bindings, "It was that rat, Peter, Peter betrayed him, that son of a bitch – I'll kill him! He won't escape this time!"

Harry tried very hard not to be taken aback by the vehemence in his godfather's voice, but he was not entirely successful. When he managed to regain his composure a moment later, he nodded. "Alright then." And with that, he spun around to leave.

His godfather's cracking voice stopped him, though. "Harry? Harry? Don't leave! Please, don't leave me here."

Harry looked back at the poor, trembling man. "You need to rest, Sirius."

"No!" the man shouted, "No! We've got to go, go find Peter! Kill the fucking rat, now!"

Harry's eyes took on an icy quality, and he glared at Sirius for good measure. "You're very ill, Sirius – you're malnourished, weak, and bruised and cut all over. It will be months before you're fully recovered. We're not going after anyone."

"You can't stop me!"

"Yes, I can," Harry retorted, unable to keep a small amount of petulance out of his voice, "Right now, this is _my _house – so you're following my rules now." He paused. "I don't want to loose anymore family."

Without waiting for a response, he exited the room, closing the door behind him. Pensive and thoughtful, he paced down the hallway for a time, eventually coming to stop in front of the door of Regulus's bedroom again. To be perfectly honest, he was a little afraid – here he had another horcrux, one that wasn't trapped in the confines of his well protected mind. And he'd no idea how to destroy it. He couldn't very well try and absorb this one as well - no, that was just begging to have his mind destroyed, no matter how well protected it was. He sighed – he had consulted _Magick Moste Evile_, earlier in the summer, but the effort proved futile, as even such a comprehensive dark magic text was loth to do any more than mention them in passing.

"_Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction..._"

Nope, that wasn't ominous at all.

Harry knew quite well that he had a potential solution right at his fingertips – Jean, more likely than not, would be able to at the very least point him in the right direction. But anyone who had ever met Harry James Potter would be able to agree on one thing – he was proud. Months had passed, and he still strongly suspected the Jean had known about the horcruxes, and in the process of dropping several subtle hints, had been effectively playing with him. In all fairness, he never gave his distant cousin a chance to explain, and in his heart, he doubted Jean's intentions had been malicious...but still. Harry was pissed off. He glared at the door. What the hell. He was having a bad day, and nothing could change that, so why not make it worse?

"Kreacher!"

The elf popped into sight just in front of him. "Yes, master Harry?"

Harry sighed. "I need you to fetch something out of the trunk I left downstairs. A portrait. Leave it in the library, will you? And don't bother being gentle."

Kreacher nodded, and with a finger snap, he popped away.

Harry heaved another sigh, this one even weightier than the last. "Here goes nothing."

He slowly made his way to the library at the end of the hall, his legs suddenly feeling as though his shoes had lead soles. When he rounded the corner to the library, sure enough, he found a portrait lying in the middle of the floor. He didn't hesitate, lest he change his mind, and walked right up to it, picking it up and staring straight at it.

"Harry! You little brat! How long has it been? Months? How many? God, I was _so _worried about you – I thought you'd died or something, you stupid little bastard."

"Shut up!" Harry snarled angrily, the sincerity of his tone stopping Jean's tirade short. "We have things to talk about."

Jean eyed him warily as he set the portrait down on one of the tables, before he sat down in the fluffy velvet armchair across from it.

The two of them were silent for a good few minutes, engaged in an intense starting contest. Much to Harry's satisfaction, it was Jean who gave in first, sighing explosively.

"Damn it, kid, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Harry schooled his expression carefully. "The Chamber of Secrets was really opened, you know," he said flatly, coldly, "By Ginny Weasley, and then by Luna Lovegood."

"_What_?"

Harry nodded slowly, working hard to keep his expression neutral. "They'd been possessed. By the spirit of a former Hogwarts student named Tom Marvolo Riddle. A student who had somehow been clever enough to preserve his essence in a small, innocent looking object. Ring a bell?"

Even as a portrait, Jean could not help but pale dramatically.

Harry pressed on, a vindictive sneer on his face. "Imagine my surprise, finding out that Tom Marvolo Riddle was none other than the very halfblood Slytherin who became my parents' murderer."

"Harry..."

"Who would have thought? That a person could split their soul into pieces and hide them somewhere – in a diary, a locket, and perhaps even inside another person's soul."

Jean froze at that, his eyes narrowing.

Harry glared at him. "But you knew that already, didn't you?"

"Knew what?"

_:Don't play games with me, you wretched, conniving dead fool!: _Harry hissed furiously.

Jean was silent for a long moment. "I suspected," he finally amended, "I couldn't be sure. I barely had time to work out the details before I died – I didn't have much time to look into the matter."

In the corner, the little fire smouldering in the hearth flared up, as Harry's eyes flashed furiously. "You bastard!" he hissed, nearly slipping into parseltongue again, "How can you talk of this so casually! I've got that monster's soul in me, his _soul_ – the dirty piece of shit that fueled the magic that killed my parents, inside of me! And Apollo only knows how much it's affected me! How could you...how could you even consider keeping that from me? Especially with everything – the dreams, the headaches...damn it, it was clear what was going on, and you didn't even say a word. What the hell kind of guardian are you?"

Jean assessed him coolly, with a regal, detached manner Harry had never seen on him. "You're right. I withheld my suspicions from you, twisted the truth, and even outright lied a few times. What are you going to do about it?"

Harry snarled. "I trusted you! I trusted you to teach me, to tell me the things I needed to know – to _keep your promises_!"

Jean's expression softened only slightly. "There are things you don't understand..."

"And whose fault is that!"

"It's not a matter of fault, Harry – not everything is a battle that has to be won. I'm not going to fight you on this, I'm not going to make excuses, and I'm not going to apologize. What's done is done."

"Yes, exactly, it's done. And I'll never forgive you for it."

Jean shook his head. "I don't ask you to."

Harry sneered at him.

"I don't care about your petty concerns, Harry – I want you kept alive. And I'll continue to ensure that in ways I see fit."

"Is that so important?" Harry whispered, his voice suddenly soft.

"It is."

"And why is that?" His voice grew harsher.

"You are blood. Blood looks after blood. And more than that – you're my heir, and you're family."

Harry stifled the faint smile that threatened his lips at those words and replaced it with a grim frown. "But that's not all there is to it, is it?"

"No, it isn't."

"You'll tell me what it is."

"Eventually."

Harry scowled. "You're a right nutter, you bloody stoner of a yank."

Jean smirked lopsidedly. "What can I say, I'm full of surprises. Even dead."

Harry closed his eyes, willing the remainder of his anger to melt away so that he could get the information he came for. "It was a horcrux – possessing students and instigating the attacks," he stated in a cold, business like tone.

Jean's eyebrows rose.

"I managed to use that sacrificial dagger I bought last year to puncture the vessel."

Jean paled. "Damn..."

"Yeah, and it was absorbed right into me."

Jean stared at him urgently. "Harry, with two horcruxes absorbed into –"

Harry nodded, cutting him off. "I know. I'm dealing, though – that's not the issue. The issue is the ones not inside me."

Jean's eyes widened. "There's more?"

Harry nodded curtly. "One in this house, actually."

Jean straightened. "Where are we?"

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place," Harry said, "The Black estate."

Jean groaned. "I'm not even going to ask..."

"Don't. Suffice it to say, I'm no longer welcome at Number 4 Privet Drive."

Jean's expression became pained.

"No matter, though," Harry said dismissively, "How do you get rid of a Horcrux? Tom seemed to be quite convinced of his own indestructibility."

"Tom?"

"Voldemort," Harry amended, "The bratty version."

Jean stared at him for a good long moment, skepticism evident on his face, followed by disbelief and then resignation. "His belief was justified. The soul is a hardy thing – and when a piece is magically infused in an object..."

Harry's face fell, and he strained to keep the desperation out of his eyes. "There must be a way. There...it can't be indestructible. Nothing's indestructible."

"Well if I was going to call something indestructible, I would choose horcruxes."

Harry grimaced.

"The soul is hard enough to destroy on its own – the creation of a horcrux is the only thing I know of that can truly fracture it completely. Besides that, the Killing Curse and the Dementor's Kiss come to mind..."

"But those only work on living things," Harry interjected frustratedly.

Jean nodded. "One would think that something that completely destroys the physical make up in its entirety might destroy a horcrux…"

"Like...Reducto?"

Jean snorted. "Yeah, right. Seriously?"

Harry scowled at him. "What! It was a guess..."

Jean shook his head bemusedly. "A bad one. The only spell I can think of that would have any promise at all would be fiendfyre..."

Harry paled. "F-fiendfyre."

Jean nodded.

"Jean, that's totally out of my league. That's not just dark arts. That...a spell like that requires mastery. It's right up there with the unforgivables, but harder to control!"

Jean quirked an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose you'll have to start practicing."

Harry frowned. "Jean...you do realize that that this isn't just a few dark-ish hexes and curses, right? It's _fiendfyre_."

Jean nodded. "I'm quite aware."

"I'd have to actually practice the dark arts – train to be a dark wizard."

"How badly do you want Voldemort dead?"

Harry sent him a withering glare. "You're my guardian. You're supposed to be deterring me from these sorts of things."

Jean shrugged. "It's a hell of a lot better than the alternative."

Harry sighed. "That doesn't make it any easier...how the hell am I supposed to practice the dark arts, let alone fiendfyre, at Hogwarts?"

Jean looked at him thoughtfully. "Well, not sure about Hogwarts, but you can get a start on it here."

"I'm only thirteen, Jean! I can't practice magic, especially not dark arts, outside of school! I'd be expelled in a heart beat."

Jean smirked. "You don't really think that the wards around the Black estates are that weak, do you?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"The Blacks, of all people, would have placed heavy wards around all their ancestral homes, so that they could practice any magic they wanted within. Moreover, this library we're currently in should prove a treasure trove for dark arts books and the like."

Harry sat back in his chair, rubbing his scar wearily. "This is insane."

"C'est la vie."

Harry glared. "I hate you."

"You love me."

"Shut up before I make you."

Jean only chuckled.

Harry was about to respond with what would have been a very witty and scathing retort before a small 'pop' was heard, and immediately following, a small envelope was dropped on his lap.

Jean's eyebrows rose. "Who's that from?"

Harry grimaced. "The Ministry of Magic."

* * *

So, what do you think? Should it be an utterly pointless invitation from the Minister (following the trend of the book), or a little warning (defusing possibly amusing conflict)? It's really just choosing the lesser of two evils, I suppose. I'm undecided, and have yet to write that scene, so it's up to you lot, I suppose.


	35. Author's Note

Hi everyone,

Well, here it is. I've finally mustered up the determination to write this.

I'm sorry I've left you all hanging, I really am. Sometimes, I was simply too busy to even consider it. Other times, I had other, more consuming things on my mind. And honestly, I had hoped that instead of putting the effort into writing this, I could simply put it instead into a new chapter.

The last year hasn't been an easy one for me; this may sound silly, but so much has changed, that I feel like I'm living a completely different life now. Not really in a good way. It's all left me rather lethargic, without the energy to bring this story to life.

It's frustrating - I know what I want to write; I have the entire thing in my head. It's just sitting there, though. That being said, this story is clearly on hiatus, as it hasn't been updated for quite a while. I just thought I should make it somewhat official.

So, basically, this is my formal apology, for being a terrible author and neglecting this for so long. I really do hope that I can one day finish this, though. I just can't see that happening in the near future.


End file.
